Maybe it's not that I have nothing more to say. Maybe I'm too aware of the audience. I no longer write with abandon. Will so and so think this is about them and take it the wrong way? Become offended? Will anyone know this is fiction or will they believe this happened to me? Will everyone know this is the truth or will they think I made it up? Have I said too much? Have I not said enough?
I've been editing a post off and on since Sunday, writing, rewriting, deleting, trying to strike the perfect balance of what I want to reveal. And now I think I'll just scrap it, delete forever, I can't get it down. Once upon a time I would just write and publish in a half-hour or however long it took. First draft. No thought to the consequences. Write. Publish. Chips fall where they may. But I was here alone then. And now the threat of consequences paralyses me.
Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe it's just part of my weird annual fall cycle, where I quietly fall to pieces all the while putting on the strong front supporting everyone else I know (who seem to also fall to pieces every September). I listen. I reassure. Everyone vents. I nod at all the right places, say all the things I'm supposed to say. I don't mind it. Listening comes natural. It's what I do. I listen. I empathise. I look for logical solutions, give a viewpoint. I've been doing it since I was a kid. Even when I was a teenager I was in the centre of my parents marriage, listening, trying to counsel. (A terrible place to put your kids, by the way, I don't recommend it.)
A long time ago a man told me he fell in love with me while watching me listen to a troubled friend and comfort her. He said he had never seen anyone focus so much attention on another person and he knew then that he needed me in his life. I've heard some version of this a few times. I've been called intense, passionate, and a bunch of other stuff. But what they all really mean is that they want to be listened to like that, so intently. That's all. I mean, who doesn't want somebody to listen? To have someone's undivided attention and genuine interest in what you've got to say . . . that's what everyone wants.
Even me.
I will write again.
This is the story of my life
And I write it everyday
I know it isn't black and white
And it's anything but gray
I know that no, I'm not alright
But I'll be OK ‘cause
Anything can, everything can happen
That's the story of my life
-- JBJ
Mood: headachy
Drinking: coffee spiked with brandy (or is it brandy with a splash of coffee?)
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Who Says You Can't Go Home
Hair: hiding my face
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Gotcha!
I may or may not have a sinus infection. I'm feeling kinda crappy and have been for a few days. I've got that pain around my eyes sinus type thing going on . . . and I am prone to infection, especially this time of the year. I probably could do with an antibiotic but I've opted for a home remedy instead and picked up some brandy today. Wish me luck knocking this out of me, whatever it is.
In other news . . .
Bon Jovi tickets for Air Canada Centre in Toronto . . .
Internet pre-sale started this morning . . .
AND I'M GOING!! Got two tickets for me and my girl Stacy. So it's official, we'll be heading to our old stomping grounds come January. We may even take the train for old times sake.
Mood: foggy
Drinking: not yet, but some brandy is in order
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Last Cigarette
Hair: greasy
In other news . . .
Bon Jovi tickets for Air Canada Centre in Toronto . . .
Internet pre-sale started this morning . . .
AND I'M GOING!! Got two tickets for me and my girl Stacy. So it's official, we'll be heading to our old stomping grounds come January. We may even take the train for old times sake.
Mood: foggy
Drinking: not yet, but some brandy is in order
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Last Cigarette
Hair: greasy
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Welcome to Wherever You Are
Maybe we're all different but we're still the same
We all got the blood of Eden running through our veins
I know sometimes it's hard for you to see
You're caught between just who you are and who you want to be
If you feel alone and lost and need a friend
Remember every new beginning is some beginning's end
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
That right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Welcome to wherever you are
When everybody's in and you're left out
And you feel you're drowning in the shadow of a doubt
Everyone's a miracle in their own way
Just listen to yourself, not what other people say
When it seems you're lost, alone and feeling down
Remember everybody's different; just take a look around
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Be who you want to be
Be who you are
Everyone's a hero
Everyone's a star
When you want to give up and your heart's about to break
Remember that you're perfect; God makes no mistakes
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
And I say welcome…
I say welcome…
Welcome…
-- Bon Jovi, Have a Nice Day
We all got the blood of Eden running through our veins
I know sometimes it's hard for you to see
You're caught between just who you are and who you want to be
If you feel alone and lost and need a friend
Remember every new beginning is some beginning's end
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
That right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Welcome to wherever you are
When everybody's in and you're left out
And you feel you're drowning in the shadow of a doubt
Everyone's a miracle in their own way
Just listen to yourself, not what other people say
When it seems you're lost, alone and feeling down
Remember everybody's different; just take a look around
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
Be who you want to be
Be who you are
Everyone's a hero
Everyone's a star
When you want to give up and your heart's about to break
Remember that you're perfect; God makes no mistakes
Welcome to wherever you are
This is your life; you made it this far
Welcome, you got to believe
Right here, right now
You're exactly where you're supposed to be
And I say welcome…
I say welcome…
Welcome…
-- Bon Jovi, Have a Nice Day
Monday, September 26, 2005
Speechless
I appear to have nothing more to say. Aren't you glad?
Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Our Lady Peace, Clumsy
Hair: bushy
Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Our Lady Peace, Clumsy
Hair: bushy
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Little Ditty Bout ...
Queen & Roncesvalles
Ancient house looks like it might collapse in mild gust of wind, boards falling off, covered in grime. Cindy's new home with Donnie, the eldest birdseed brother of Newfoundland. Not the one with the wavy blonde hair to his shoulders that I have secret (or not so secret) crush on, quiet David of the honest living that I sneak away with under a bridge on the Lakeshore for shy handholding walk. But the other one with black hair and curling mustache, who knows how to make a good gravy but danger to turn back on him when alone in the kitchen.
This house is rotting, boarded up, is it even legal to live here? The stairwell is dark but Donnie meets us with a flashlight, shines the light at our feet so we won't fall through the holes in the steps as others have. All the way to the top, attic-like, turn left and into too bright room lit by bare 100 watt bulb dangling from ceiling. One room. Two double mattresses side by side on the floor. For sleeping? For sitting? They are unmade, naked, stained with spilled drinks and . . . ? A half dozen two-fours Ex opened in varying stages of emptiness, three seagrams forties uncapped, no glasses, excuse the backwash. A cardboard box with Cindy's clothes. I see the yellow sweatshirt, aqua gym pants that used to be part of my laundry, fringed jacket that hitchhiked all the way from North Bay, almost safely. No bathroom. No running water. What did I expect? No jobs.
Cindy perches on the edge of one mattress, an unlit cigarette clenched in her huge smile, twitching, "Gotta light?" A scuzzy guy on either side of her, hair greasy with dirt, eyes circled in darkness, fingers and palms stained yellow, hands touching her thighs, arms draped around her behind. Familiar. She laughs in that hollow throaty way she does when she's been partying for weeks, flipping her long blonde hair like Cher but looking more like Goldie with those big blue eyes and full lips. Smoke thickens the air, hazing the room that smells of beer, cheap perfume, hash, body odor, cocaine cigarettes, decomposing Pizza Pizza slices. Is this love? Whitesnake on cassette in silver ghetto blaster with black speakers.
I feel overly concerned about the legality of this space, ironically, given leather jackets layered with bricks. None of my business. Cindy notices me and tries to get up for greeting but legs won't straighten, won't strengthen. I scoot scuzzy guys who ogle me but don't touch, settle into the mattress with Cindy, hugging her, swigging from a forty, smiling, singing, whispering . . . don't need to stay, bed is still empty, come home with me, listen to me Cindy Lou, listen . . . she can't hear me, but Donnie can or senses, comes to sit beside me, a little too close, filling in a D & C sandwich, protecting his investment. If I push he'll beat the crap out of her again tonight, he'll probably do it anyway, but we've come alone, outnumbered, for money matters not humanitarian crises. It's none of my business. So we drink and I smooth her hair and we laugh and when I can I whisper and look for a spark in dull eyes.
We leave as we came, just the three of us, Cindy's phony laugh trailing us down the stairs.
Three weeks later Donnie bursts into our house looking for Cindy. She's run away (again). He can't find her anywhere. I don't know where she is and he won't believe me, runs through all the rooms looking for clues, for a hiding girl in a closet. I really don't know where she is. "I'll kill her!" And he's serious, I believe him. He's got it all figured out, the how-to part. Through the neighborhood I learn she ran away with one of his friends (one of the scuzzy men at the apt?), someone with a trade, job prospects, the ability to make an honest living and take care of her, who doesn't beat women. I smile.
Eight months later I'm walking to my work when I see Cindy on the street, stop, excited to find her, hugs. She lives in an apartment above a store two doors down from the place I've been working for almost a year. It's a wicked coincidence to find her. She's straight, sober, and working as a cashier at a grocery, still with Donnie's ex-friend. She invites me up for tea though she seems fidgety, nervous. Catch up on old neighborhood gossip. Learn new boyfriend has steady income, works in construction, but they've been on the run from Donnie, a few near misses, and she's thinking of leaving the city altogether, going home, thinking of her dad and the north. As the afternoon stretches toward evening and the return of the boyfriend she practically throws me out. He wouldn't understand me being there, would spook him about Donnie, they'd have to move again and they've just got settled, I have the feeling he is not as non-violent as I've been led to believe. She makes me promise that I will not tell anyone where they are. I promise. I promise. I promise. And we promise to get together again sometime soon for coffee or lunch. A big hug and I'm off to work.
Two weeks later a For Rent sign lives in the window of Cindy's apartment and I never see her again.
Mood: achy
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Whitesnake, Here I Go Again
Hair: perfectly ponied
Ancient house looks like it might collapse in mild gust of wind, boards falling off, covered in grime. Cindy's new home with Donnie, the eldest birdseed brother of Newfoundland. Not the one with the wavy blonde hair to his shoulders that I have secret (or not so secret) crush on, quiet David of the honest living that I sneak away with under a bridge on the Lakeshore for shy handholding walk. But the other one with black hair and curling mustache, who knows how to make a good gravy but danger to turn back on him when alone in the kitchen.
This house is rotting, boarded up, is it even legal to live here? The stairwell is dark but Donnie meets us with a flashlight, shines the light at our feet so we won't fall through the holes in the steps as others have. All the way to the top, attic-like, turn left and into too bright room lit by bare 100 watt bulb dangling from ceiling. One room. Two double mattresses side by side on the floor. For sleeping? For sitting? They are unmade, naked, stained with spilled drinks and . . . ? A half dozen two-fours Ex opened in varying stages of emptiness, three seagrams forties uncapped, no glasses, excuse the backwash. A cardboard box with Cindy's clothes. I see the yellow sweatshirt, aqua gym pants that used to be part of my laundry, fringed jacket that hitchhiked all the way from North Bay, almost safely. No bathroom. No running water. What did I expect? No jobs.
Cindy perches on the edge of one mattress, an unlit cigarette clenched in her huge smile, twitching, "Gotta light?" A scuzzy guy on either side of her, hair greasy with dirt, eyes circled in darkness, fingers and palms stained yellow, hands touching her thighs, arms draped around her behind. Familiar. She laughs in that hollow throaty way she does when she's been partying for weeks, flipping her long blonde hair like Cher but looking more like Goldie with those big blue eyes and full lips. Smoke thickens the air, hazing the room that smells of beer, cheap perfume, hash, body odor, cocaine cigarettes, decomposing Pizza Pizza slices. Is this love? Whitesnake on cassette in silver ghetto blaster with black speakers.
I feel overly concerned about the legality of this space, ironically, given leather jackets layered with bricks. None of my business. Cindy notices me and tries to get up for greeting but legs won't straighten, won't strengthen. I scoot scuzzy guys who ogle me but don't touch, settle into the mattress with Cindy, hugging her, swigging from a forty, smiling, singing, whispering . . . don't need to stay, bed is still empty, come home with me, listen to me Cindy Lou, listen . . . she can't hear me, but Donnie can or senses, comes to sit beside me, a little too close, filling in a D & C sandwich, protecting his investment. If I push he'll beat the crap out of her again tonight, he'll probably do it anyway, but we've come alone, outnumbered, for money matters not humanitarian crises. It's none of my business. So we drink and I smooth her hair and we laugh and when I can I whisper and look for a spark in dull eyes.
We leave as we came, just the three of us, Cindy's phony laugh trailing us down the stairs.
Three weeks later Donnie bursts into our house looking for Cindy. She's run away (again). He can't find her anywhere. I don't know where she is and he won't believe me, runs through all the rooms looking for clues, for a hiding girl in a closet. I really don't know where she is. "I'll kill her!" And he's serious, I believe him. He's got it all figured out, the how-to part. Through the neighborhood I learn she ran away with one of his friends (one of the scuzzy men at the apt?), someone with a trade, job prospects, the ability to make an honest living and take care of her, who doesn't beat women. I smile.
Eight months later I'm walking to my work when I see Cindy on the street, stop, excited to find her, hugs. She lives in an apartment above a store two doors down from the place I've been working for almost a year. It's a wicked coincidence to find her. She's straight, sober, and working as a cashier at a grocery, still with Donnie's ex-friend. She invites me up for tea though she seems fidgety, nervous. Catch up on old neighborhood gossip. Learn new boyfriend has steady income, works in construction, but they've been on the run from Donnie, a few near misses, and she's thinking of leaving the city altogether, going home, thinking of her dad and the north. As the afternoon stretches toward evening and the return of the boyfriend she practically throws me out. He wouldn't understand me being there, would spook him about Donnie, they'd have to move again and they've just got settled, I have the feeling he is not as non-violent as I've been led to believe. She makes me promise that I will not tell anyone where they are. I promise. I promise. I promise. And we promise to get together again sometime soon for coffee or lunch. A big hug and I'm off to work.
Two weeks later a For Rent sign lives in the window of Cindy's apartment and I never see her again.
Mood: achy
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Whitesnake, Here I Go Again
Hair: perfectly ponied
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Time
Bon Jovi's new album drops today. There is no record store in Sackville. Wednesday I go to Moncton for Mighty meetings where I will run to the Highfield Square HMV or whatever it is directly from the bus station and purchase the CD before meeting Mighty crew for supper at as yet undecided location.
Jon will be on Oprah on Wednesday as well, and I'll be scrambling to see that before catching the bus. I have a 15 minute window . . . unless I can find an earlier showing.
And now the fun part begins. The quest for concert tickets. Because I WILL be seeing them this World Tour. There are only two dates announced in Canada so far -- Montreal on December 14th and Toronto on January 23rd . . . but then there's Boston on December 9th . . . mustn't rule that out. Pre-sales and special fan club tickets info is sketchy at this point. It seems like you have to actually line up with I.D. to get fan club tickets, which kinda sucks cuz I can't do that, and you're limited to one. One ticket in the Golden Circle, 100 people right up front by the stage, some will get onstage, some will get backstage . . . but unless they change the rules and make it so you can get the damn things online, I will not be one of them.
Toronto tickets go on sale first, on September 30th through Ticketmaster. I'll be trying to get them . . . and I guess if I come up empty I'll try Montreal the following morning when those tickets go on sale. I've signed up for every sort of email update I could find so I should know right away if they add any dates.
Jon will be on Oprah on Wednesday as well, and I'll be scrambling to see that before catching the bus. I have a 15 minute window . . . unless I can find an earlier showing.
And now the fun part begins. The quest for concert tickets. Because I WILL be seeing them this World Tour. There are only two dates announced in Canada so far -- Montreal on December 14th and Toronto on January 23rd . . . but then there's Boston on December 9th . . . mustn't rule that out. Pre-sales and special fan club tickets info is sketchy at this point. It seems like you have to actually line up with I.D. to get fan club tickets, which kinda sucks cuz I can't do that, and you're limited to one. One ticket in the Golden Circle, 100 people right up front by the stage, some will get onstage, some will get backstage . . . but unless they change the rules and make it so you can get the damn things online, I will not be one of them.
Toronto tickets go on sale first, on September 30th through Ticketmaster. I'll be trying to get them . . . and I guess if I come up empty I'll try Montreal the following morning when those tickets go on sale. I've signed up for every sort of email update I could find so I should know right away if they add any dates.
Monday, September 19, 2005
New Arrivals
See, I told ya I was busy . . . days might go by without a post. No time to slow down and chat now either, I've got to go to the Irving and pick up a parcel. Earlier I picked up my Sears Outlet parcel and tried everything on. Jeans are low-rider, which is a bit unexpected, but they fit okay. They are comfortable, though I might have been able to go a size smaller and get more wear out of them . . . but this was inexpensive shopping spree so it's okay if they don't last forever. Also got hot pink tee (I KNOW! What kind of good mood was I in that day?), the form fitting stretchy kind, with lycra, not even a big old loose cotton tee. Which I will probably never wear unless it is under the black poncho . . . yes, you heard correctly, I've got a poncho and I'm not afraid to wear it. Also in the grab bag were running shoes and undies (with the undies being the most expensive item of the whole purchase). Fedora coming soon as I find one I love.
Mood: hungry
Drinking: diet gingerale
Listening To: a buzzing razor in the driveway . . . one of the boys might be shaving his head
Hair: tousled
Mood: hungry
Drinking: diet gingerale
Listening To: a buzzing razor in the driveway . . . one of the boys might be shaving his head
Hair: tousled
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Rainly Day Blahs
Ophelia moves from my right to take up new residence in left knee. This is the way it's supposed to be. Looking out the window wondering if it's too late to build an ark. Maybe the boys have one already and will take me away with them. They are all in residence today, playing music with too heavy bass, mirror vibrates on bedroom wall. Is this to drown out my Billie Holiday? The Smiths? The Grateful Dead? Perish the thought.
Cooked chicken wings, marinated in sun-dried tomatoe/oregano, smothered in hot sauce. Yummy! And no injuries . . . yesterday i burned my right arm in three places, scarring to follow.
Mood: trying to focus
Drinking: banrock shiraz cabernet sauvignon
Listening To: Chemical Bros, Where do I Begin?
Hair: slick
Cooked chicken wings, marinated in sun-dried tomatoe/oregano, smothered in hot sauce. Yummy! And no injuries . . . yesterday i burned my right arm in three places, scarring to follow.
Mood: trying to focus
Drinking: banrock shiraz cabernet sauvignon
Listening To: Chemical Bros, Where do I Begin?
Hair: slick
Ophelia
The right side of my body knows Ophelia's around. Wrist and knee full of woe. Unusual, the left side should've alerted me days ago . . . but still has perfect motion.
Sackville is under Heavy Rainfall Warning. Amherst too, but they've also got a Tropical Storm warning. A stone's throw away practically (9km) and yet we don't get the Storm watch. How do they decide the boundaries?
I hoped it wouldn't be raining so heavy so early, that I could scoot to market for coffee and goodies, then pick up sears parcel. But it's really coming down and has been since I got up shortly after 8 this a.m. No major wind yet, just the usual, but Environment Canada says up to 70km/h . . . I don't know, is that wicked?
There's a crazy blue jay outside, landing in the eaves (eating spiders I hope), coming crazy close to my windows. What manner of bad luck would that bring? If a jay beat himself silly on my window? Not good, for sure.
Mood: sleepy
Drinking: coffee still
Listening To: Billie Holiday, Lady Sings the Blues
Hair: harnessed in white scrunchie
Sackville is under Heavy Rainfall Warning. Amherst too, but they've also got a Tropical Storm warning. A stone's throw away practically (9km) and yet we don't get the Storm watch. How do they decide the boundaries?
I hoped it wouldn't be raining so heavy so early, that I could scoot to market for coffee and goodies, then pick up sears parcel. But it's really coming down and has been since I got up shortly after 8 this a.m. No major wind yet, just the usual, but Environment Canada says up to 70km/h . . . I don't know, is that wicked?
There's a crazy blue jay outside, landing in the eaves (eating spiders I hope), coming crazy close to my windows. What manner of bad luck would that bring? If a jay beat himself silly on my window? Not good, for sure.
Mood: sleepy
Drinking: coffee still
Listening To: Billie Holiday, Lady Sings the Blues
Hair: harnessed in white scrunchie
Too Much Pressure
Gemini's Daily Horoscope
Some rather intense and vivid dreams could inspire you to embark on some in-depth study of a subject that specifically interests you, Kellie. This could involve the arts, philosophy, or metaphysics. Travel plans to one of the world's great spiritual centers, such as Jerusalem, Glastonbury or Vrindavana, might be on your mind as a result. Your level of intuition is very high today, so whatever you dream of doing, give it some serious thought. It might be just what you need!
Mood: grey
Drinking: coffee, Canadian blend, extra cream
Listening To: Lovehammers, Hold On
Hair: spiking
Some rather intense and vivid dreams could inspire you to embark on some in-depth study of a subject that specifically interests you, Kellie. This could involve the arts, philosophy, or metaphysics. Travel plans to one of the world's great spiritual centers, such as Jerusalem, Glastonbury or Vrindavana, might be on your mind as a result. Your level of intuition is very high today, so whatever you dream of doing, give it some serious thought. It might be just what you need!
Mood: grey
Drinking: coffee, Canadian blend, extra cream
Listening To: Lovehammers, Hold On
Hair: spiking
Friday, September 16, 2005
Weighty Stuff
I'm in the process of putting away most of my summery type clothes to make way for fall and winter. So last night I went into the trunk, where some things are smelling pretty smoky I gotta say. Anyway, I went into the trunk and there were those black pants I was talking about yesterday. The pants that would represent some sort of return to normalcy if ever I could get them up over my ankles again. A hope for a brighter thinner future.
I checked the size. Hmmm, not the smallest I've ever been . . . but I'm not looking to be creepy walking skeleton lady again anyway . . . And now I remember all the other pants that I tossed (well gave away to family and friends) A-HA! Those are the ones that I used to wear when I had the club and was my most adorable perfect size (after gaining a good 20 pounds, sometime in the second year of biz . . . after the pookie monster went to tobacco, granting me a brief reprieve). Got rid of those pants so as to not remind me of those days and be super depressed that I couldn't get one toe into them anymore. Aren't I the smart one? Always thinking and planning for my peace of mind.
Anyway, the club days pants were a size or two smaller than these ones from the trunk. The ones in the trunk are two sizes smaller than the ones I'm wearing that are starting to fall off me. The last time I tried on the trunk pants I quite literally could not get them up to my knees. They are the slimfit style I always used to wear before I went flared or bootcut, which makes them tighter in the legs.
I had no expectations because I don't feel like I've lost all that much weight really. I feel kind of the same . . . which is probably due to the fact that I didn't really ever feel like I had gained that much weight either . . . I've had reverse anorexia, where I look in the mirror and only see a quarter of what's really there.
Anyway, I decided to be brave and try the pants . . . and you could've knocked me over when I pulled them on and all the way to my waist without any resistance whatsoever. No struggle. No wriggling around trying to squeeze my fat thighs into a too small space. My legs and butt have definitely shrunk since the last try-on. My stomach has a longer route to follow. Still I buttoned the damn things and zipped them up . . . and totally put them on! Probably will never wear these pants again, though they look brand new . . . but for someone who hasn't weighed herself since the early 90's, refuses to live by numbers but rather by how good I feel (or not) this is how I've come to gauge where I'm at and where I've been.
I feel fantastic, by the way, never been better in that department. The benefits of quitting smoking have far outweighed these other fatty issues for sure.
Mood: punchy
Drinking: coffee, organic rainforest blend with cream
Listening To: Lovehammers, Clinic
Hair: waiting to exhale
I checked the size. Hmmm, not the smallest I've ever been . . . but I'm not looking to be creepy walking skeleton lady again anyway . . . And now I remember all the other pants that I tossed (well gave away to family and friends) A-HA! Those are the ones that I used to wear when I had the club and was my most adorable perfect size (after gaining a good 20 pounds, sometime in the second year of biz . . . after the pookie monster went to tobacco, granting me a brief reprieve). Got rid of those pants so as to not remind me of those days and be super depressed that I couldn't get one toe into them anymore. Aren't I the smart one? Always thinking and planning for my peace of mind.
Anyway, the club days pants were a size or two smaller than these ones from the trunk. The ones in the trunk are two sizes smaller than the ones I'm wearing that are starting to fall off me. The last time I tried on the trunk pants I quite literally could not get them up to my knees. They are the slimfit style I always used to wear before I went flared or bootcut, which makes them tighter in the legs.
I had no expectations because I don't feel like I've lost all that much weight really. I feel kind of the same . . . which is probably due to the fact that I didn't really ever feel like I had gained that much weight either . . . I've had reverse anorexia, where I look in the mirror and only see a quarter of what's really there.
Anyway, I decided to be brave and try the pants . . . and you could've knocked me over when I pulled them on and all the way to my waist without any resistance whatsoever. No struggle. No wriggling around trying to squeeze my fat thighs into a too small space. My legs and butt have definitely shrunk since the last try-on. My stomach has a longer route to follow. Still I buttoned the damn things and zipped them up . . . and totally put them on! Probably will never wear these pants again, though they look brand new . . . but for someone who hasn't weighed herself since the early 90's, refuses to live by numbers but rather by how good I feel (or not) this is how I've come to gauge where I'm at and where I've been.
I feel fantastic, by the way, never been better in that department. The benefits of quitting smoking have far outweighed these other fatty issues for sure.
Mood: punchy
Drinking: coffee, organic rainforest blend with cream
Listening To: Lovehammers, Clinic
Hair: waiting to exhale
Thursday, September 15, 2005
My World Today
The Sackville Film Society starts tonight with a showing of Saint Ralph. No time to catch this one, I'm afraid. I'm bogged down with many other things. Plus I generally don't go in for these types of stories, though lord knows I love Gordon Pinsent and Campbell Scott. Still I'm excited the film society has started up again. I'm hoping Murderball will be on the schedule. At some point I'm gonna see films with subtitles on a big screen! This never happened in Miramichi. How excited am I?!
I did a little Sears Outlet shopping the other day, where you can often get stuff at 70-80% clearance. I needed new running shoes and jeans. Also winter boots, but I couldn't find any I liked. Since my move I've dropped a full size and I'm getting to the point where I can no longer pretend these jeans fit me anymore, talk about baggy butt! So I went into the tickle trunk and brought out smaller pants saved for just this occasion and as it turns out they're not going to last long if I continue on this trend. They too are loose, should've been brought out sometime over the summer. So I need some new clothes.
One pair of pants remains in the trunk. I didn't try them on, there's no way they can fit. I haven't worn them since Brent's wake and they were pretty damn tight then but the only black pants I owned at that time. This of course was during the first six months of quitting smoking and the immobility of that major arthritis flare that totally kicked my ass for about a year. Oh yes, and the major depression I had after September 11th, mustn't forget that, it had quite the impact.
I remember I was losing a little weight then, had just gotten back into these pants (and once I'm comfortably into that size I'm where I'm supposed to be, at my healthiest weight). Then Brent killed himself and those pants were worn for the last time to his wake and then I totally blew up. My metabolism became non-existent (the ravages of smoking). Even as I exercised everyday to get through the arthritis and ate healthier I continued to blow up. It was super depressing to totally be doing everything right and to just continually grow larger regardless. So then I'd fall off the wagon and eat nothing but ice cream for a month until my arthritis would flare and I'd have to address it or not be able to function. It's taken a really long time to get my body to respond, but now it feels like we're gravitating toward our natural weight again. Finally!
And the upside is I get to buy new clothes. Yay!
Trying to put my house in order today, declutter my workspace so I can totally focus on work. Things are trickling in from the Miramichi Writers' today for their anthology. This is an exciting project! And I've got lots of editing projects in various stages of completion. Plus bnm and ink. I forgot the garbage again yesterday. The dish fairy blew me off again this week. Lots to do. Ciao!
Mood: ascending
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Pink Floyd, Money
Hair: slicked to my scalp
I did a little Sears Outlet shopping the other day, where you can often get stuff at 70-80% clearance. I needed new running shoes and jeans. Also winter boots, but I couldn't find any I liked. Since my move I've dropped a full size and I'm getting to the point where I can no longer pretend these jeans fit me anymore, talk about baggy butt! So I went into the tickle trunk and brought out smaller pants saved for just this occasion and as it turns out they're not going to last long if I continue on this trend. They too are loose, should've been brought out sometime over the summer. So I need some new clothes.
One pair of pants remains in the trunk. I didn't try them on, there's no way they can fit. I haven't worn them since Brent's wake and they were pretty damn tight then but the only black pants I owned at that time. This of course was during the first six months of quitting smoking and the immobility of that major arthritis flare that totally kicked my ass for about a year. Oh yes, and the major depression I had after September 11th, mustn't forget that, it had quite the impact.
I remember I was losing a little weight then, had just gotten back into these pants (and once I'm comfortably into that size I'm where I'm supposed to be, at my healthiest weight). Then Brent killed himself and those pants were worn for the last time to his wake and then I totally blew up. My metabolism became non-existent (the ravages of smoking). Even as I exercised everyday to get through the arthritis and ate healthier I continued to blow up. It was super depressing to totally be doing everything right and to just continually grow larger regardless. So then I'd fall off the wagon and eat nothing but ice cream for a month until my arthritis would flare and I'd have to address it or not be able to function. It's taken a really long time to get my body to respond, but now it feels like we're gravitating toward our natural weight again. Finally!
And the upside is I get to buy new clothes. Yay!
Trying to put my house in order today, declutter my workspace so I can totally focus on work. Things are trickling in from the Miramichi Writers' today for their anthology. This is an exciting project! And I've got lots of editing projects in various stages of completion. Plus bnm and ink. I forgot the garbage again yesterday. The dish fairy blew me off again this week. Lots to do. Ciao!
Mood: ascending
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Pink Floyd, Money
Hair: slicked to my scalp
How Is Your Inner Child?
| Your Inner Child Is Naughty |
 Like a child, you tend to discount social rules. It's just too much fun to break the rules! You love trouble - and it seems that trouble loves you. And no matter what, you refuse to grow up! |
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Slowing Down
With another blog to maintain and stuff coming in for books and newsletters demanding my immediate attention + the usual bnm and mundane world crap, marathon blogging here might finally be a thing of the past. All together now, 1-2-3- SIGH OF RELIEF
You'll miss my posts, mark my words. In a few months you'll all be begging me to give something up and revive the 3 a.m. stream of consciousness Sunday anxiety rants. Oh I know, you think not now, but we'll see. Oh yeah, we'll see.
So tonight I went to my first Sackville Writers' Group meeting. The walk over was a lot further than the map would lead one to believe. I, of course, wore the wrong shoes for such a walk and now am nursing huge blisters on both heels. When will I learn you ask? Well, I've heard that some don't and I suspect when it comes to shoes I may be one of them.
The meeting went well. Five of us and I felt pretty comfortable. They had some really interesting commentary on my story and I got an idea about something that needs reworking. After discussing my story, we talked about writing for awhile. It was also really interesting to see how everyone goes about creating. I'm very free and easy with my writing, willing to try anything, boldly go without a plan, shift gears on a whim and just have fun with it. I hadn't imagined that others might be more tortured by the creation process, more comfortable in the editing/re-writing stage. Because for me it's the opposite. Once I head into full on editing mode I'm always in danger of slicing and dicing to the point where nothing remains. And that's the work part for me, though even then it's just business not something I dread or shy away from. Very interesting discussion for sure. I had a good time.
I agreed to take part in the Roving Poets for the Fall Fair. I may have to ply myself with vodka before the event, but I'm going nonetheless. I'M going to read poetry! In PUBLIC! How nuts is that?! Not my poetry, mind you. No, I haven't gone completely off the deep end. I have to look around and find a bunch of poems that might be appropriate in different venues throughout town. You know one about Pizza sauce to be read at Joey's for instance. Oh, and I have to find something to wear, a costume of sorts, something that says Roving Poet . . . if you were a roving poet, what would you wear?
This is so not something I would normally do. And my stomach is screaming from the discomfort of it all. Which of course is precisely why I must do it, push the boundaries of my comfort zone once again. If it makes me uncomfortable, I'm growing . . . so the big T is always saying. What's the worst that could happen?
Mood: sleepy
Drinking: gingerale
Listening To: a jet dry commercial
Hair: smoking hot (and I'm not even kidding, there are women all over the world struggling with curling irons and gels and sprays and who knows what kind of flammable materials in order to get this do that is just the way the locks wanted to fall today)
You'll miss my posts, mark my words. In a few months you'll all be begging me to give something up and revive the 3 a.m. stream of consciousness Sunday anxiety rants. Oh I know, you think not now, but we'll see. Oh yeah, we'll see.
So tonight I went to my first Sackville Writers' Group meeting. The walk over was a lot further than the map would lead one to believe. I, of course, wore the wrong shoes for such a walk and now am nursing huge blisters on both heels. When will I learn you ask? Well, I've heard that some don't and I suspect when it comes to shoes I may be one of them.
The meeting went well. Five of us and I felt pretty comfortable. They had some really interesting commentary on my story and I got an idea about something that needs reworking. After discussing my story, we talked about writing for awhile. It was also really interesting to see how everyone goes about creating. I'm very free and easy with my writing, willing to try anything, boldly go without a plan, shift gears on a whim and just have fun with it. I hadn't imagined that others might be more tortured by the creation process, more comfortable in the editing/re-writing stage. Because for me it's the opposite. Once I head into full on editing mode I'm always in danger of slicing and dicing to the point where nothing remains. And that's the work part for me, though even then it's just business not something I dread or shy away from. Very interesting discussion for sure. I had a good time.
I agreed to take part in the Roving Poets for the Fall Fair. I may have to ply myself with vodka before the event, but I'm going nonetheless. I'M going to read poetry! In PUBLIC! How nuts is that?! Not my poetry, mind you. No, I haven't gone completely off the deep end. I have to look around and find a bunch of poems that might be appropriate in different venues throughout town. You know one about Pizza sauce to be read at Joey's for instance. Oh, and I have to find something to wear, a costume of sorts, something that says Roving Poet . . . if you were a roving poet, what would you wear?
This is so not something I would normally do. And my stomach is screaming from the discomfort of it all. Which of course is precisely why I must do it, push the boundaries of my comfort zone once again. If it makes me uncomfortable, I'm growing . . . so the big T is always saying. What's the worst that could happen?
Mood: sleepy
Drinking: gingerale
Listening To: a jet dry commercial
Hair: smoking hot (and I'm not even kidding, there are women all over the world struggling with curling irons and gels and sprays and who knows what kind of flammable materials in order to get this do that is just the way the locks wanted to fall today)
More Rock Star
Caught Rock Star INXS late last night, as the dog howled into the wee hours and the house filled with overnight guests. For the first time I actually think Susie could win this thing. She was awesome. And I can't get JD's song Pretty Vegas out of my head, it's such an INXS song though! I thought the Canadians really got the show off on a high note. And then there was Marty, all that boy has to do is look into the camera and I freak out. Got to hear an acoustic version of Trees, which was totally as good as the rock version. And Radiohead! C'mon! He nailed that song, I had chills. Maybe it's because I just saw The Rolling Stones, maybe it's because he followed my boy Marty, I dunno, but I wasn't feeling Mig's Paint it Black at all. His second song was better. And then of course when he tosses the jacket, you've gotta love him. But overall I think his performance was the weakest of the night and early voting had him in last place . . . so will Mig finally get into the bottom and sing an INXS song? That is the question. Next week is the finale with the top three and where the band picks their new lead singer. I'll miss this show when it's over. It's hard to get into Idol shows after watching this. They're not even in the same ballpark.
Mood: achy
Drinking: nuttin
Listening To: the wind whistle around the eaves of the house
Hair: missing the ponytails
Mood: achy
Drinking: nuttin
Listening To: the wind whistle around the eaves of the house
Hair: missing the ponytails
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Have a Nice Day
Watched the first 35 minutes of the World Music Awards just to see Bon Jovi get the Diamond Award for selling over 100 million albums. Jon sans sunglasses is always a treat but the boys looked tired, sick, a little too made-up (especially Ritchie with all the mascara he looked like Alice Cooper). They performed Have a Nice Day from the new album and a verse or so of It's My Life. Jon definitely had a cold or something, you could tell, especially from the hoarseness of his voice during the acceptance speech. Still gorgeous tho' despite sickness. They'll be going on tour soon . . . and that's when I max out my credit card.
There are girls in the house. Giggly annoying silly girls. Blah! Well, they're not here now, they've gone out. But they've been replaced by a dog, a whining, whimpering, so sad to be alone, yappy, little dog. I feel bad for him. Don't know when they'll be back. Hopefully before I go to bed.
Mood: apathetic
Drinking: gingerale
Listening To: Jon Bon Jovi, Blaze of Glory
Hair: rebelling
There are girls in the house. Giggly annoying silly girls. Blah! Well, they're not here now, they've gone out. But they've been replaced by a dog, a whining, whimpering, so sad to be alone, yappy, little dog. I feel bad for him. Don't know when they'll be back. Hopefully before I go to bed.
Mood: apathetic
Drinking: gingerale
Listening To: Jon Bon Jovi, Blaze of Glory
Hair: rebelling
S-A-D
Seasons changing. Shall I go for bright light therapy? Or just straight onto the anti-depressants? Hmm. It's a dilemma.
Feeling a little funky this week for sure. Could be the usual fall thing. Could be lingering remnants of shitty time in Barnbonia. Could also be related to poor diet caused by fridge devoid of anything green and leafy on said shitty visit . . . and zero dollars to replenish stocks on the homefront. Could be noticeable increase in joint stiffness and pain due to arthritis inflammation brought on by changing temperatures i.e. changing season.
I refuse to start taking medication again. I've been living quite the drug-free lifestyle since the move. ME! The 2700 mg ibuprofen per day queen. Who would've ever thunk it? I actually took one Advil the night of the concert while we were stuck in the parking lot for hours without food or water and I developed quite the little migraine. I took ONE Advil (what's that 200mg?) and it actually worked, headache begone!
It's just a little funk, not out and out depression or anything serious. No need to worry. Tomorrow I'll be up and flying high I'm sure, but today I'm working in my jammies, wearing my slippers, haven't combed my hair since first getting up this morning, craving a cigarette . . . that kind of thing. But anyone who knows me (Jenn in particular) has probably noticed how easily I slip in and out of these funky days.
In other news . . . one of the big names being thrown into the speculation surrounding a Magnetic Hill concert next year is McCartney! How awesome would that be? Would that even bring the likes of my mother out? I wonder.
I wrote an entry on the Bread 'n Molasses Blog about the creative writing workshop, for anyone who's interested in all the details. Also looking for ideas for the next one, if you have any, post them there in the comments.
If you haven't been following Joe's blog lately, go visit cuz you're in for a huge treat. The boy is in residence at the casemate and writing poetry right out straight. At the rate of three poems per day, will have another book out of this gig, which is awesome.
The NBLC has a couple of events coming up this fall that I so need to attend, especially the Wine and Food Expo in Moncton. How cool is that?
Tomorrow at least I'll be forced to get dressed and get out of the house. Must walk to the Irving to pick up package from WFNB coming on the bus. Perhaps swing by liquor store while out there for brandy to take the chill out of my bones. Maybe there will even be a cheque, which might bring more cheer than liquor even. And tomorrow evening is Sackville Writers' Group meeting, where I get to meet everyone finally. They are doing some sort of Roving Poets thing for the annual Fall Fair here in Sackville. Apparently you don't have to be a poet to participate, you read other people's poetry and not usually your own. I don't know that I have any confidence in myself to read anyone's poetry . . . think I'll just watch this time around. Wish someone would come visit me to hang out for Fall Fair . . . Trish? Stacy? Jenn? . . . Anyone? . . . There is always Lee I suppose, he's been wanting to visit, a fair is an occasion for a visit afterall.
This Friday night there is jazz at George's Roadhouse and I so want to go. But I'm chicken to go out there by myself. It's so desolate. And a stone's throw from the legion which was robbed at knifepoint last Thursday. I don't know what's wrong with me. It never bothered me to go places alone at home. I used to always be alone, hook up with whoever I happened to run into and have crazy adventures. What is so different about here? I could go for a set surely . . . couldn't I? Maybe I will meet someone interesting, a whole lot of interesting people, people who love the blues . . . and maybe even red wine. How will I ever meet new people if I'm afraid to go out alone? I don't know.
There is another event tomorrow at the swan pond that I wouldn't hesitate to attend alone. But I have the writers thing at the same time, so I'll miss it, though it looks mighty cool.
Boys are cooking/burning supper next door. Beef I think. Very well done.
Mood: uncertain
Drinking: california merlot 2003
Listening To: Madonna, Evita Soundtrack (Another Suitcase in Another Hall)
Hair: craving
Feeling a little funky this week for sure. Could be the usual fall thing. Could be lingering remnants of shitty time in Barnbonia. Could also be related to poor diet caused by fridge devoid of anything green and leafy on said shitty visit . . . and zero dollars to replenish stocks on the homefront. Could be noticeable increase in joint stiffness and pain due to arthritis inflammation brought on by changing temperatures i.e. changing season.
I refuse to start taking medication again. I've been living quite the drug-free lifestyle since the move. ME! The 2700 mg ibuprofen per day queen. Who would've ever thunk it? I actually took one Advil the night of the concert while we were stuck in the parking lot for hours without food or water and I developed quite the little migraine. I took ONE Advil (what's that 200mg?) and it actually worked, headache begone!
It's just a little funk, not out and out depression or anything serious. No need to worry. Tomorrow I'll be up and flying high I'm sure, but today I'm working in my jammies, wearing my slippers, haven't combed my hair since first getting up this morning, craving a cigarette . . . that kind of thing. But anyone who knows me (Jenn in particular) has probably noticed how easily I slip in and out of these funky days.
In other news . . . one of the big names being thrown into the speculation surrounding a Magnetic Hill concert next year is McCartney! How awesome would that be? Would that even bring the likes of my mother out? I wonder.
I wrote an entry on the Bread 'n Molasses Blog about the creative writing workshop, for anyone who's interested in all the details. Also looking for ideas for the next one, if you have any, post them there in the comments.
If you haven't been following Joe's blog lately, go visit cuz you're in for a huge treat. The boy is in residence at the casemate and writing poetry right out straight. At the rate of three poems per day, will have another book out of this gig, which is awesome.
The NBLC has a couple of events coming up this fall that I so need to attend, especially the Wine and Food Expo in Moncton. How cool is that?
Tomorrow at least I'll be forced to get dressed and get out of the house. Must walk to the Irving to pick up package from WFNB coming on the bus. Perhaps swing by liquor store while out there for brandy to take the chill out of my bones. Maybe there will even be a cheque, which might bring more cheer than liquor even. And tomorrow evening is Sackville Writers' Group meeting, where I get to meet everyone finally. They are doing some sort of Roving Poets thing for the annual Fall Fair here in Sackville. Apparently you don't have to be a poet to participate, you read other people's poetry and not usually your own. I don't know that I have any confidence in myself to read anyone's poetry . . . think I'll just watch this time around. Wish someone would come visit me to hang out for Fall Fair . . . Trish? Stacy? Jenn? . . . Anyone? . . . There is always Lee I suppose, he's been wanting to visit, a fair is an occasion for a visit afterall.
This Friday night there is jazz at George's Roadhouse and I so want to go. But I'm chicken to go out there by myself. It's so desolate. And a stone's throw from the legion which was robbed at knifepoint last Thursday. I don't know what's wrong with me. It never bothered me to go places alone at home. I used to always be alone, hook up with whoever I happened to run into and have crazy adventures. What is so different about here? I could go for a set surely . . . couldn't I? Maybe I will meet someone interesting, a whole lot of interesting people, people who love the blues . . . and maybe even red wine. How will I ever meet new people if I'm afraid to go out alone? I don't know.
There is another event tomorrow at the swan pond that I wouldn't hesitate to attend alone. But I have the writers thing at the same time, so I'll miss it, though it looks mighty cool.
Boys are cooking/burning supper next door. Beef I think. Very well done.
Mood: uncertain
Drinking: california merlot 2003
Listening To: Madonna, Evita Soundtrack (Another Suitcase in Another Hall)
Hair: craving
Monday, September 12, 2005
Meme-Day
Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die:
Crap! This is hard. I could fill the list easy just with the places I want to visit.
1. Travel, Travel, Travel -- I want to go EVERYWHERE. Italy, Argentina, Spain, Ireland, France, England, Germany, Russia, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Egypt, Australia, all over the U.S. and Canada
2. Concerts -- U2 & Bon Jovi for damn sure, but given the opportunity I would freak to see David Bowie, Billy Joel, Joni Mitchell, Stevie Nicks, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and so many others, haven't been to many concerts so far.
3. Win the Giller -- nope, not even kidding, if you're gonna have a goal it might as well be a decent one.
4. Make a film
5. Do a marathon
6. Get and stay healthy
7. Make enough money to do all the things I want
Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Write a short story, press release, essay, blog post, newspaper article, etc.
2. Emcee an event
3. Copy edit any type of prose
4. Design newsletters, brochures, newspapers, books, posters, etc.
5. Drink wine
6. Get along with pretty much anybody (within reason, as long as they aren't the devil)
7. Adapt quickly to changing situations without losing it
Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1. Not voice my opinion
2. Draw
3. Sing
4. Play a musical instrument
5. Tolerate bigotry and/or racism
6. Trust immediately
7. Speak any language other than English
Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex:
1. Kindness
2. Honesty/Sincerity/Integrity
3. Compassion
4. Intelligence
5. Sense of Humour
6. Loyalty
7. And tall with rugged shoulders and amazing eyes, never hurts
Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1. cool
2. me thinks
3. good stuff
4. hell yeah
5. yep
6. blah
7. go-wan
Seven Celebrity Crushes:
1. Jon Bon Jovi
2. Cillian Murphy
3. Johnny Depp
4. Seamus O'Reagan
5. Evan Solomon
6. Justin Trudeau
7. Mark Wahlberg
Seven people I want to do this:
I dislike tagging; do if you want.
Crap! This is hard. I could fill the list easy just with the places I want to visit.
1. Travel, Travel, Travel -- I want to go EVERYWHERE. Italy, Argentina, Spain, Ireland, France, England, Germany, Russia, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Egypt, Australia, all over the U.S. and Canada
2. Concerts -- U2 & Bon Jovi for damn sure, but given the opportunity I would freak to see David Bowie, Billy Joel, Joni Mitchell, Stevie Nicks, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and so many others, haven't been to many concerts so far.
3. Win the Giller -- nope, not even kidding, if you're gonna have a goal it might as well be a decent one.
4. Make a film
5. Do a marathon
6. Get and stay healthy
7. Make enough money to do all the things I want
Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Write a short story, press release, essay, blog post, newspaper article, etc.
2. Emcee an event
3. Copy edit any type of prose
4. Design newsletters, brochures, newspapers, books, posters, etc.
5. Drink wine
6. Get along with pretty much anybody (within reason, as long as they aren't the devil)
7. Adapt quickly to changing situations without losing it
Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1. Not voice my opinion
2. Draw
3. Sing
4. Play a musical instrument
5. Tolerate bigotry and/or racism
6. Trust immediately
7. Speak any language other than English
Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex:
1. Kindness
2. Honesty/Sincerity/Integrity
3. Compassion
4. Intelligence
5. Sense of Humour
6. Loyalty
7. And tall with rugged shoulders and amazing eyes, never hurts
Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1. cool
2. me thinks
3. good stuff
4. hell yeah
5. yep
6. blah
7. go-wan
Seven Celebrity Crushes:
1. Jon Bon Jovi
2. Cillian Murphy
3. Johnny Depp
4. Seamus O'Reagan
5. Evan Solomon
6. Justin Trudeau
7. Mark Wahlberg
Seven people I want to do this:
I dislike tagging; do if you want.
Sunday Seven #2
Again belated. Play if you want.
You have to be stuck on a deserted island with the seven castaways from Gilligan's Island. Who would you most like to have as your immediate neighbors? Rank the seven castaways with one being the person you'd most like to have as a neighbor and seven being the person you'd least like to have nearby.
1. Roy Hinkley, the Professor (he was hot! and smart. i like smart guys)
2. Mary Anne Summers, the Farm Girl (we'd be the best of friends i'm sure)
3. Thurston Howell III, the Millionaire (if i could tolerate this pair maybe they would give me money when we got off the island)
4. Eunice "Lovey" Wentworth Howell, his Wife (they did get off the island eventually, didn't they?)
5. Jonas Grumby, the Skipper (i'm really indifferent to him, no recollection of how annoying he was)
6. Willie Gilligan, his First Mate (poor gilligan is close to the bottom because i just don't deal well with stupidity)
7. Ginger Grant, the Movie Star (and then there's stupid AND beautiful, no thanks)
You have to be stuck on a deserted island with the seven castaways from Gilligan's Island. Who would you most like to have as your immediate neighbors? Rank the seven castaways with one being the person you'd most like to have as a neighbor and seven being the person you'd least like to have nearby.
1. Roy Hinkley, the Professor (he was hot! and smart. i like smart guys)
2. Mary Anne Summers, the Farm Girl (we'd be the best of friends i'm sure)
3. Thurston Howell III, the Millionaire (if i could tolerate this pair maybe they would give me money when we got off the island)
4. Eunice "Lovey" Wentworth Howell, his Wife (they did get off the island eventually, didn't they?)
5. Jonas Grumby, the Skipper (i'm really indifferent to him, no recollection of how annoying he was)
6. Willie Gilligan, his First Mate (poor gilligan is close to the bottom because i just don't deal well with stupidity)
7. Ginger Grant, the Movie Star (and then there's stupid AND beautiful, no thanks)
Saturday Six #74
Belated of course.
1. You find out that you have to appear on a daytime talk show. It doesn't matter whose show you choose, but you must appear on one. Which show would you pick and why?
Oprah. Because when Oprah says to read somebody, people read . . . but Ellen Degeneres if I was looking to have a good time and memorable experience.
2. Have you ever joined an online dating or penpal site? If so, have you kept in touch with anyone that you met there; if not, have you ever thought about joining up?
I have. I've had some interesting penpals from around the world, but haven't kept anything up.
3. Who was the last person you promised you'd keep in touch with following a move or job change? Have you kept in touch?
I don't know that we actually promised to keep in touch, but we did for awhile. Darren.
4. Take this quiz: What pizza best describes your personality?
5. You're having dinner with friends at a restaurant. Besides the company, what is the most important part of the meal: the appetizer, the drinks, the salad, the entree, or the dessert?
C'mon. You know I'm all about the drinks.
6. Have you ever submitted a Reader's Choice question to the "Saturday Six?" If so, did the answers surprise you? If not, why haven't you?
I haven't and I probably won't. Who has time to make these things up? Tho, it can be kinda fun to play along.
1. You find out that you have to appear on a daytime talk show. It doesn't matter whose show you choose, but you must appear on one. Which show would you pick and why?
Oprah. Because when Oprah says to read somebody, people read . . . but Ellen Degeneres if I was looking to have a good time and memorable experience.
2. Have you ever joined an online dating or penpal site? If so, have you kept in touch with anyone that you met there; if not, have you ever thought about joining up?
I have. I've had some interesting penpals from around the world, but haven't kept anything up.
3. Who was the last person you promised you'd keep in touch with following a move or job change? Have you kept in touch?
I don't know that we actually promised to keep in touch, but we did for awhile. Darren.
4. Take this quiz: What pizza best describes your personality?
| Everything Pizza |
 Diverse and adaptable You enjoy the full buffet of life It's hard to you play favorites with friends... or flavors There's very little that you dislike! |
5. You're having dinner with friends at a restaurant. Besides the company, what is the most important part of the meal: the appetizer, the drinks, the salad, the entree, or the dessert?
C'mon. You know I'm all about the drinks.
6. Have you ever submitted a Reader's Choice question to the "Saturday Six?" If so, did the answers surprise you? If not, why haven't you?
I haven't and I probably won't. Who has time to make these things up? Tho, it can be kinda fun to play along.
Your Daily Horoscope
An intense conversation with a close friend or romantic partner could bring you closer to this person. You probably share a number of goals with this person, Kellie, and discussions could lead to how you could work together in order to make them happen for both of you. You're more likely to take the lead, however, since your communicative abilities are particularly high right now. Put your heads together and move forward! Enjoy!
Ok friends, I'm waiting.
Ok friends, I'm waiting.
What's in a name?
Kellie
Warrior maid : Irish
You are fairminded, wise and peaceloving and are always willing to help others. Your mental capabilities and creativity are well marked with wonderful and original ideas which you need to bring to tangible fruition. Perceptive and understanding of others your positive approach to life and influential nature means that you have leadership qualities. There is great potential for success both financially and spiritually.
What does your name mean? Click here to find out.
Warrior maid : Irish
You are fairminded, wise and peaceloving and are always willing to help others. Your mental capabilities and creativity are well marked with wonderful and original ideas which you need to bring to tangible fruition. Perceptive and understanding of others your positive approach to life and influential nature means that you have leadership qualities. There is great potential for success both financially and spiritually.
What does your name mean? Click here to find out.
Which Horror Movie Are You?
Take the quiz: "Which Horror Movie Are You?"
The Craft
You're whole life, you've felt different. You know you're different, and that is why you break away from the norm and don't give a shit what other people think about you. You're you, you're proud, you're a bit... weird might I say? but you're far more interesting than most people will ever percieve. Keep being yourself, whether people like it or not.
The Craft
You're whole life, you've felt different. You know you're different, and that is why you break away from the norm and don't give a shit what other people think about you. You're you, you're proud, you're a bit... weird might I say? but you're far more interesting than most people will ever percieve. Keep being yourself, whether people like it or not.
After
Hellish weekend at the folks. Hellish. Not since Christmas 1987 have I had a worse visit. Quite similar actually, except Sherry didn't hate me, just Mom this time. And of course I wasn't alone on the shit list, nobody escaped, lumped in there together with the likes of Dad . . . So, it'll be awhile before I go back. I remember I had planned to go home for March Break and then the entire summer in '88 but plans changed after that first Christmas vacation. I went to work instead, first the pet store then the ballet. I must've went home for a week or something in there somewhere, but visits were brief I remember and spent mostly partying with friends away from the homestead. It was a few years before I came for the whole summer, and then only because I needed a break from Kevin and thought days spent weeding the carrots in Grandad's garden would help clear my head. They did at first, but then I met David and lost my head completely.
But enough about ancient history, there's this new hellish visit to deal with . . . and just when I signed up for a long-distance plan so I could call her more often . . . if you live outside my calling area, expect calls.
My mother is mourning the loss of both her parents in the last year, within six months of each other. To say she is depressed would be a severe understatement. She is bitter, cold, distant, irrational, apathetic, completely self-absorbed, sad, unstable and more. If I allowed myself to get caught up in her funk I'd be super worried about her. I can't allow myself because there is nothing I can do to help her. No amount of begging or screaming will get her to snap out of it or seek help. So I can drive myself crazy with worry, guilt and frustration over my helplessness or I can step away from the situation and focus on my own life. Do you hear the beep, beep, beep of me backing away?
Yes, it's easier said than done but it's the only logical response. I've been in severe funks. I've had break-downs. Crazy--been there, done that. I understand what it's like to be unstable. Nobody pulled me out of it, I had to do it for myself. Whatever happens with my mother is up to her. I have no control, no power. And it makes no sense to spend any energy on something I can't control or influence. It's counterproductive and I won't do it.
I've always believed dealing with death would be easier if you were surrounded by other loved ones. A partner, kids, grandkids, siblings, etc. And I've thought about how I will handle my parents death on my own with just sibling support. With no shoulder to cry on and no kids to hug. I've wondered if I'll be strong enough or if I'll fall apart. I've wondered if my belief in souls will stand up to the test. But if my mother's family is any indication, it all makes no difference. They've got HUGE extended families, kids, grandkids, each other, some pretty strong faith . . . and they've all gone to pieces. None of the living matters, only the dead, and maybe that's just the way it is, I don't know.
Mood: bouncing back
Drinking: coffee, coffee, and more coffee
Listening To: The Tragically Hip, Nautical Disaster
Hair: silky and smelling like gardenias
But enough about ancient history, there's this new hellish visit to deal with . . . and just when I signed up for a long-distance plan so I could call her more often . . . if you live outside my calling area, expect calls.
My mother is mourning the loss of both her parents in the last year, within six months of each other. To say she is depressed would be a severe understatement. She is bitter, cold, distant, irrational, apathetic, completely self-absorbed, sad, unstable and more. If I allowed myself to get caught up in her funk I'd be super worried about her. I can't allow myself because there is nothing I can do to help her. No amount of begging or screaming will get her to snap out of it or seek help. So I can drive myself crazy with worry, guilt and frustration over my helplessness or I can step away from the situation and focus on my own life. Do you hear the beep, beep, beep of me backing away?
Yes, it's easier said than done but it's the only logical response. I've been in severe funks. I've had break-downs. Crazy--been there, done that. I understand what it's like to be unstable. Nobody pulled me out of it, I had to do it for myself. Whatever happens with my mother is up to her. I have no control, no power. And it makes no sense to spend any energy on something I can't control or influence. It's counterproductive and I won't do it.
I've always believed dealing with death would be easier if you were surrounded by other loved ones. A partner, kids, grandkids, siblings, etc. And I've thought about how I will handle my parents death on my own with just sibling support. With no shoulder to cry on and no kids to hug. I've wondered if I'll be strong enough or if I'll fall apart. I've wondered if my belief in souls will stand up to the test. But if my mother's family is any indication, it all makes no difference. They've got HUGE extended families, kids, grandkids, each other, some pretty strong faith . . . and they've all gone to pieces. None of the living matters, only the dead, and maybe that's just the way it is, I don't know.
Mood: bouncing back
Drinking: coffee, coffee, and more coffee
Listening To: The Tragically Hip, Nautical Disaster
Hair: silky and smelling like gardenias
Friday, September 09, 2005
Sold Out Show
Sixteen! I've been to whole AGMs with less participants. I think it went well. Several people mentioned afterward that they'd love for me to come back again and do another one.
First thing, little warm-up exercise to get the blood flowing to their brains, buddy in the back tosses a fit -- "this isn't what I signed up for! I write true stuff now, I want to write creatively!" Shit. How did I know there would be one of these guys? Deep breath, big smile, best voice, and into the truth about fiction -- you never have to make anything up, be observant. Even sci-fi worlds originate from an author's truth. Heads nodding, he's writing stuff down, and I'm deciding the rest of what I've got planned is not going to fly with this man . . . so I change gears, go another way . . . and now, we're winging it. Nobody wants to read what they've written. We're getting through things way too quickly. I'm not going to be able to fill two hours . . . making things up on the fly . . . pulling little writing exercises out of my headachy (previously wine-stoned) brain. This is nuts. Twenty minutes left and I tell them we're done writing, talk about writing groups, open the floor to questions (they have lots!) and somehow make it through and end right on time.
Then people are coming up to me, thanking me, asking me to come back, saying how well I handled buddy off the top . . . and then I even get paid, like a "real" workshop . . . and home to drink the rest of the wine and unwind, process the evening. How crazy was that?! I can't believe I got away with it.
Mood: ready to hit the liquor store
Drinking: nuttin'
Listening To: a wally-gator rant
Hair: flippy ends
First thing, little warm-up exercise to get the blood flowing to their brains, buddy in the back tosses a fit -- "this isn't what I signed up for! I write true stuff now, I want to write creatively!" Shit. How did I know there would be one of these guys? Deep breath, big smile, best voice, and into the truth about fiction -- you never have to make anything up, be observant. Even sci-fi worlds originate from an author's truth. Heads nodding, he's writing stuff down, and I'm deciding the rest of what I've got planned is not going to fly with this man . . . so I change gears, go another way . . . and now, we're winging it. Nobody wants to read what they've written. We're getting through things way too quickly. I'm not going to be able to fill two hours . . . making things up on the fly . . . pulling little writing exercises out of my headachy (previously wine-stoned) brain. This is nuts. Twenty minutes left and I tell them we're done writing, talk about writing groups, open the floor to questions (they have lots!) and somehow make it through and end right on time.
Then people are coming up to me, thanking me, asking me to come back, saying how well I handled buddy off the top . . . and then I even get paid, like a "real" workshop . . . and home to drink the rest of the wine and unwind, process the evening. How crazy was that?! I can't believe I got away with it.
Mood: ready to hit the liquor store
Drinking: nuttin'
Listening To: a wally-gator rant
Hair: flippy ends
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Back in Black
So here I am again -- a Barnbonian. Starting to freak out a bit about this workshop thingy. No time to freak yet about Grand Falls, save that for later. Had a good time last night. Terry met me at train, Stacy was a few minutes late. But hey, the train was on time, who knew that could or would ever happen? Opted for pizza instead of Chinese. Stacy gave me a beautiful gift for being in the wedding. Too nice for wearing, methinks. Too delicate for Kellie. But beautiful. Saw my boy in Red Eye. Hated his American accent. Why couldn't they just let him be Irish? Getting my hair cut later. much to do still . . .
Mood: wee nervous
Drinking: tea
Listening To: scooby doo really loud on tv
Hair: getting a cut today
Mood: wee nervous
Drinking: tea
Listening To: scooby doo really loud on tv
Hair: getting a cut today
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Sickened
Quotes from Mrs. Bush Sr, the first mother:
“Almost everyone I’ve talked to says ‘we’re going to move to Houston,’” Bush said in a radio interview after visiting evacuees at the Astrodome with her husband, former president George Bush.
“What I’m hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality,” she said.
“And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this - this is working very well for them.”
This is working very well for them?! It sickens me that this family runs that country.
Another letter from Michael Moore.
Mood: bit frazzled
Drinking: COFFEE
Listening To: Matt Mays, Cocaine Cowgirl
Hair: getting cut tomorrow
“Almost everyone I’ve talked to says ‘we’re going to move to Houston,’” Bush said in a radio interview after visiting evacuees at the Astrodome with her husband, former president George Bush.
“What I’m hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality,” she said.
“And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this - this is working very well for them.”
This is working very well for them?! It sickens me that this family runs that country.
Another letter from Michael Moore.
Mood: bit frazzled
Drinking: COFFEE
Listening To: Matt Mays, Cocaine Cowgirl
Hair: getting cut tomorrow
Trees
Working through the wee hours and fell into Rock Star INXS again tonight after weeks of no tv. Down to five, no surprises really as to who remains -- JD, Mig, Marty, Susie, Jordis. Has Mig gotten even hotter since I last tuned in? Hell yeah! But really nothing has changed since I last watched. Mig performs and I'm frothing at the mouth, certain it doesn't get any better than this . . . then Marty comes out and blows everyone else outta the water. Think Jordis did the worse tonight. JDs original tune struck me as being the most INXS-like. As amazing as Marty is I so don't want him to win this competition and be stuck singing crappy INXS tunes forever. He needs to make a record, but not with them. That would just be a shame. JD should win, he's the INXS fanatic. Mig and Marty need to go solo.
I burned six cds for jenn, ruined three . . . don't ask me how. Music is done. We're ready to party on Saturday. I'm so apathetic toward this trip, talk about minimalist packing! It's crazy. I don't want to take anything. I'm going to be there for at least four nights with two business type events and a party to attend, and I don't want to take any clothes, shoes -- nothing. It's too soon after crazy Stones weekend I think.
There is something wrong with my winamp, it won't play the next track unless I forward, it just keeps playing the same tune over and over . . . of course it's taken a good 30 minutes of singing with Bowie to realise I'm stuck in a loop, because it is crossfading plus you know I love him.
Mood: wired
Drinking: jamaican ginger beer rocks!
Listening To: Bowie, China Girl
Hair: back up, sides down
I burned six cds for jenn, ruined three . . . don't ask me how. Music is done. We're ready to party on Saturday. I'm so apathetic toward this trip, talk about minimalist packing! It's crazy. I don't want to take anything. I'm going to be there for at least four nights with two business type events and a party to attend, and I don't want to take any clothes, shoes -- nothing. It's too soon after crazy Stones weekend I think.
There is something wrong with my winamp, it won't play the next track unless I forward, it just keeps playing the same tune over and over . . . of course it's taken a good 30 minutes of singing with Bowie to realise I'm stuck in a loop, because it is crossfading plus you know I love him.
Mood: wired
Drinking: jamaican ginger beer rocks!
Listening To: Bowie, China Girl
Hair: back up, sides down
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Another Ginger Beer Nite?
I have too much to do and once again I am running out of time. How does this happen? Same shit, different week. Man, I've got to get more organised or something. I just heard this really loud . . . bang? boom? . . . thunder? the train? . . . kids throwing furniture again? I don't know what it was, but it was super loud.
On ATV news tonight a reporter said the city of Moncton is rumored to be going after Bono and U2 for a concert next year. I nearly choked on my steak. I will freak right out if U2 comes to Moncton. I'm freaking at the mere hint of such a thing.
Burned four cds pour mon pere. Now I'm on Jenn's karaoke cds. And I'm writing. And I'm editing. And I'm chatting. And I'm listening to tunes. And I'm blogging. And I'm looking for lyrics. And I'm packing. And I'm doing laundry. And I'm putting together the final workshop notes. And I'm doing dishes. And I'm planning Friday's presentation. And I'm reading Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck. And . . . you get the idea.
Mood: hyper
Drinking: ginger beer
Listening To: Ramones, I Wanna Be Sedated
Hair: in my eyes
On ATV news tonight a reporter said the city of Moncton is rumored to be going after Bono and U2 for a concert next year. I nearly choked on my steak. I will freak right out if U2 comes to Moncton. I'm freaking at the mere hint of such a thing.
Burned four cds pour mon pere. Now I'm on Jenn's karaoke cds. And I'm writing. And I'm editing. And I'm chatting. And I'm listening to tunes. And I'm blogging. And I'm looking for lyrics. And I'm packing. And I'm doing laundry. And I'm putting together the final workshop notes. And I'm doing dishes. And I'm planning Friday's presentation. And I'm reading Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck. And . . . you get the idea.
Mood: hyper
Drinking: ginger beer
Listening To: Ramones, I Wanna Be Sedated
Hair: in my eyes
Road Trip Again
Another crazy day of getting ready to vacate the premises. I'm off on the train tomorrow to Miramichi. Stacy will collect me at the station, then we're going for Chinese followed by the movies. Yep, I'm seeing Red Eye! Yay! Love my boy! Thursday night is my workshop and we're going to have a full class according to my contacts in Blackville. Friday, the Mighty crew heads to Grand Falls for meetings and I have to do a presentation on bnm. Saturday is the un-party for Dad's 60th (which has me scrambling to burn mega-cds before leaving) and then I guess I'll come back on Sunday or something, not real sure yet. I'm tired of going places. I never thought I'd ever say that, but I am. Actually, I don't know if I'm tired or if I'm just stressed because I cannot work from there . . . and I've got an awful lot of work. Maybe if I had a notebook computer, I'd want to go more often to even more places.
Mood: bit sleepy
Drinking: coffee sludge left over from this a.m.
Listening To: nothing, cuz i'm burning cds
Hair: still attached
Mood: bit sleepy
Drinking: coffee sludge left over from this a.m.
Listening To: nothing, cuz i'm burning cds
Hair: still attached
Monday, September 05, 2005
Notes from Inside New Orleans
----- Original Message -----
From: "jordan flaherty"
Sent: Friday, September 02, 2005 2:58 PM
Subject: Notes from inside New Orleans
Thanks to all the loved ones and long-lost friends for your sweet notes of concern, offers of housing and support, etc. Yes, I stayed through the storm and aftermath. I'm fine - much better off than most of my brother and sister hurricane survivors. Below is my attempt to relay some of what I've seen these last few days.
Please Forward
Notes From Inside New Orleans by Jordan Flaherty Friday, September 2, 2005
I just left New Orleans a couple hours ago. I traveled from the apartment I was staying in by boat to a helicopter to a refugee camp. If anyone wants to examine the attitude of federal and state officials towards the victims of hurricane Katrina, I advise you to visit one of the refugee camps.
In the refugee camp I just left, on the I-10 freeway near Causeway, thousands of people (at least 90% black and poor) stood and squatted in mud and trash behind metal barricades, under an unforgiving sun, with heavily armed soldiers standing guard over them. When a bus would come through, it would stop at a random spot, state police would open a gap in one of the barricades, and people would rush for the bus, with no
information given about where the bus was going. Once inside (we were told) evacuees would be told where the bus was taking them - Baton Rouge, Houston, Arkansas, Dallas, or other locations. I was told that if you boarded a bus bound for Arkansas (for example), even people with family and a place to stay in Baton Rouge would not be allowed to get out of the bus as it passed through Baton Rouge. You had no choice but
to go to the shelter in Arkansas. If you had people willing to come to New Orleans to pick you up, they could not come within 17 miles of the camp.
I traveled throughout the camp and spoke to Red Cross workers, Salvation Army workers, National Guard, and state police, and although they were friendly, no one could give me any details on when buses would arrive, how many, where they would go to, or any other information. I spoke to the several teams of journalists nearby, and asked if any of them had been able to get any information from any federal or state officials on any of these questions, and all of them, from Australian tv to local Fox
affiliates complained of an unorganized, non-communicative, mess. One cameraman told me "as someone who's been here in this camp for two days, the only information I can give you is this: get out by nightfall. You don't want to be here at night."
There was also no visible attempt by any of those running the camp to set up any sort of transparent and consistent system, for instance a line to get on buses, a way to register contact information or find family members, special needs services for children and infirm, phone services, treatment for possible disease exposure, nor even a single trash can.
To understand this tragedy, its important to look at New Orleans itself. For those who have not lived in New Orleans, you have missed a incredible, glorious, vital, city. A place with a culture and energy unlike anywhere else in the world. A 70% African-American city where resistance to white supremecy has supported a generous, subversive and unique culture of vivid beauty. From jazz, blues and hiphop, to
secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians, Parades, Beads, Jazz Funerals, and red beans and rice on Monday nights, New Orleans is a place of art and music and dance and sexuality and liberation unlike anywhere else in the world.
It is a city of kindness and hospitality, where walking down the block can take two hours because you stop and talk to someone on every porch, and where a community pulls together when someone is in need. It is a city of extended families and social networks filling the gaps left by city, state and federal goverments that have abdicated their responsibilty for the public welfare. It is a city where someone you
walk past on the street not only asks how you are, they wait for an answer.
It is also a city of exploitation and segregation and fear. The city of New Orleans has a population of just over 500,000 and was expecting 300 murders this year, most of them centered on just a few, overwhelmingly black, neighborhoods. Police have been quoted as saying that they don't need to search out the perpetrators, because usually a few days after a shooting, the attacker is shot in revenge.
There is an atmosphere of intense hostility and distrust between much of Black New Orleans and the N.O. Police Department. In recent months, officers have been accused of everything from drug running to corruption to theft. In seperate incidents, two New Orleans police officers were recently charged with rape (while in uniform), and there have been several high profile police killings of unarmed youth, including the
murder of Jenard Thomas, which has inspired ongoing weekly protests for several months.
The city has a 40% illiteracy rate, and over 50% of black ninth graders will not graduate in four years. Louisiana spends on average $4,724 per child's education and ranks 48th in the country for lowest teacher salaries. The equivalent of more than two classrooms of young people drop out of Louisiana schools every day and about 50,000 students are absent from school on any given day. Far too many young black men from New Orleans end up enslaved in Angola Prison, a former slave plantation where inmates still do manual farm labor, and over 90% of inmates eventually die in the prison. It is a city where industry has left, and most remaining jobs are are low-paying, transient, insecure jobs in the service economy.
Race has always been the undercurrent of Louisiana politics. This disaster is one that was constructed out of racism, neglect and incompetence. Hurricane Katrina was the inevitable spark igniting the gasoline of cruelty and corruption. From the neighborhoods left most at risk, to the treatment of the refugees to the the media portayal of the victims, this disaster is shaped by race.
Louisiana politics is famously corrupt, but with the tragedies of this week our political leaders have defined a new level of incompetence. As hurricane Katrina approached, our Governor urged us to "Pray the hurricane down" to a level two. Trapped in a building two days after the hurricane, we tuned our battery-operated radio into local radio and tv stations, hoping for vital news, and were told that our governor had called for a day of prayer. As rumors and panic began to rule, they was
no source of solid dependable information. Tuesday night, politicians and reporters said the water level would rise another 12 feet - instead it stabilized. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the politicians and media only made it worse.
While the rich escaped New Orleans, those with nowhere to go and no way to get there were left behind. Adding salt to the wound, the local and national media have spent the last week demonizing those left behind. As someone that loves New Orleans and the people in it, this is the part of this tragedy that hurts me the most, and it hurts me deeply.
No sane person should classify someone who takes food from indefinitely closed stores in a desperate, starving city as a "looter," but thats just what the media did over and over again. Sherrifs and politicians talked of having troops protect stores instead of perform rescue operations.
Images of New Orleans' hurricane-ravaged population were transformed into black, out-of-control, criminals. As if taking a stereo from a store that will clearly be insured against loss is a greater crime than the governmental neglect and incompetence that did billions of dollars of damage and destroyed a city. This media focus is a tactic, just as the eighties focus on "welfare queens" and super-predators" obscured the simultaneous and much larger crimes of the Savings and Loan scams and mass layoffs, the hyper-exploited people of New Orleans are being used as a scapegoat to cover up much larger crimes.
City, state and national politicians are the real criminals here. Since at least the mid-1800s, its been widely known the danger faced by flooding to New Orleans. The flood of 1927, which, like this week's events, was more about politics and racism than any kind of natural disaster, illustrated exactly the danger faced. Yet government officials have consistently refused to spend the money to protect this poor, overwhelmingly black, city.
While FEMA and others warned of the urgent impending danger to New Orleans and put forward proposals for funding to reinforce and protect the city, the Bush administration, in every year since 2001, has cut or refused to fund New Orleans flood control, and ignored scientists warnings of increased hurricanes as a result of global warming. And, as the dangers rose with the floodlines, the lack of coordinated response dramatized vividly the callous disregard of our elected leaders.
The aftermath from the 1927 flood helped shape the elections of both a US President and a Governor, and ushered in the southern populist politics of Huey Long.
In the coming months, billions of dollars will likely flood into New Orleans. This money can either be spent to usher in a "New Deal" for the city, with public investment, creation of stable union jobs, new schools, cultural programs and housing restoration, or the city can be "rebuilt and revitalized" to a shell of its former self, with newer hotels, more casinos, and with chain stores and theme parks replacing the former neighborhoods, cultural centers and corner jazz clubs.
Long before Katrina, New Orleans was hit by a hurricane of poverty, racism, disinvestment, de-industrialization and corruption. Simply the damage from this pre-Katrina hurricane will take billions to repair.
Now that the money is flowing in, and the world's eyes are focused on Katrina, its vital that progressive-minded people take this opportunity to fight for a rebuilding with justice. New Orleans is a special place, and we need to fight for its rebirth.
-----------------------------------------------
Jordan Flaherty is an editor of Left Turn Magazine (www.leftturn.org).
-----------------------------------------------
From: "jordan flaherty"
Sent: Friday, September 02, 2005 2:58 PM
Subject: Notes from inside New Orleans
Thanks to all the loved ones and long-lost friends for your sweet notes of concern, offers of housing and support, etc. Yes, I stayed through the storm and aftermath. I'm fine - much better off than most of my brother and sister hurricane survivors. Below is my attempt to relay some of what I've seen these last few days.
Please Forward
Notes From Inside New Orleans by Jordan Flaherty Friday, September 2, 2005
I just left New Orleans a couple hours ago. I traveled from the apartment I was staying in by boat to a helicopter to a refugee camp. If anyone wants to examine the attitude of federal and state officials towards the victims of hurricane Katrina, I advise you to visit one of the refugee camps.
In the refugee camp I just left, on the I-10 freeway near Causeway, thousands of people (at least 90% black and poor) stood and squatted in mud and trash behind metal barricades, under an unforgiving sun, with heavily armed soldiers standing guard over them. When a bus would come through, it would stop at a random spot, state police would open a gap in one of the barricades, and people would rush for the bus, with no
information given about where the bus was going. Once inside (we were told) evacuees would be told where the bus was taking them - Baton Rouge, Houston, Arkansas, Dallas, or other locations. I was told that if you boarded a bus bound for Arkansas (for example), even people with family and a place to stay in Baton Rouge would not be allowed to get out of the bus as it passed through Baton Rouge. You had no choice but
to go to the shelter in Arkansas. If you had people willing to come to New Orleans to pick you up, they could not come within 17 miles of the camp.
I traveled throughout the camp and spoke to Red Cross workers, Salvation Army workers, National Guard, and state police, and although they were friendly, no one could give me any details on when buses would arrive, how many, where they would go to, or any other information. I spoke to the several teams of journalists nearby, and asked if any of them had been able to get any information from any federal or state officials on any of these questions, and all of them, from Australian tv to local Fox
affiliates complained of an unorganized, non-communicative, mess. One cameraman told me "as someone who's been here in this camp for two days, the only information I can give you is this: get out by nightfall. You don't want to be here at night."
There was also no visible attempt by any of those running the camp to set up any sort of transparent and consistent system, for instance a line to get on buses, a way to register contact information or find family members, special needs services for children and infirm, phone services, treatment for possible disease exposure, nor even a single trash can.
To understand this tragedy, its important to look at New Orleans itself. For those who have not lived in New Orleans, you have missed a incredible, glorious, vital, city. A place with a culture and energy unlike anywhere else in the world. A 70% African-American city where resistance to white supremecy has supported a generous, subversive and unique culture of vivid beauty. From jazz, blues and hiphop, to
secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians, Parades, Beads, Jazz Funerals, and red beans and rice on Monday nights, New Orleans is a place of art and music and dance and sexuality and liberation unlike anywhere else in the world.
It is a city of kindness and hospitality, where walking down the block can take two hours because you stop and talk to someone on every porch, and where a community pulls together when someone is in need. It is a city of extended families and social networks filling the gaps left by city, state and federal goverments that have abdicated their responsibilty for the public welfare. It is a city where someone you
walk past on the street not only asks how you are, they wait for an answer.
It is also a city of exploitation and segregation and fear. The city of New Orleans has a population of just over 500,000 and was expecting 300 murders this year, most of them centered on just a few, overwhelmingly black, neighborhoods. Police have been quoted as saying that they don't need to search out the perpetrators, because usually a few days after a shooting, the attacker is shot in revenge.
There is an atmosphere of intense hostility and distrust between much of Black New Orleans and the N.O. Police Department. In recent months, officers have been accused of everything from drug running to corruption to theft. In seperate incidents, two New Orleans police officers were recently charged with rape (while in uniform), and there have been several high profile police killings of unarmed youth, including the
murder of Jenard Thomas, which has inspired ongoing weekly protests for several months.
The city has a 40% illiteracy rate, and over 50% of black ninth graders will not graduate in four years. Louisiana spends on average $4,724 per child's education and ranks 48th in the country for lowest teacher salaries. The equivalent of more than two classrooms of young people drop out of Louisiana schools every day and about 50,000 students are absent from school on any given day. Far too many young black men from New Orleans end up enslaved in Angola Prison, a former slave plantation where inmates still do manual farm labor, and over 90% of inmates eventually die in the prison. It is a city where industry has left, and most remaining jobs are are low-paying, transient, insecure jobs in the service economy.
Race has always been the undercurrent of Louisiana politics. This disaster is one that was constructed out of racism, neglect and incompetence. Hurricane Katrina was the inevitable spark igniting the gasoline of cruelty and corruption. From the neighborhoods left most at risk, to the treatment of the refugees to the the media portayal of the victims, this disaster is shaped by race.
Louisiana politics is famously corrupt, but with the tragedies of this week our political leaders have defined a new level of incompetence. As hurricane Katrina approached, our Governor urged us to "Pray the hurricane down" to a level two. Trapped in a building two days after the hurricane, we tuned our battery-operated radio into local radio and tv stations, hoping for vital news, and were told that our governor had called for a day of prayer. As rumors and panic began to rule, they was
no source of solid dependable information. Tuesday night, politicians and reporters said the water level would rise another 12 feet - instead it stabilized. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the politicians and media only made it worse.
While the rich escaped New Orleans, those with nowhere to go and no way to get there were left behind. Adding salt to the wound, the local and national media have spent the last week demonizing those left behind. As someone that loves New Orleans and the people in it, this is the part of this tragedy that hurts me the most, and it hurts me deeply.
No sane person should classify someone who takes food from indefinitely closed stores in a desperate, starving city as a "looter," but thats just what the media did over and over again. Sherrifs and politicians talked of having troops protect stores instead of perform rescue operations.
Images of New Orleans' hurricane-ravaged population were transformed into black, out-of-control, criminals. As if taking a stereo from a store that will clearly be insured against loss is a greater crime than the governmental neglect and incompetence that did billions of dollars of damage and destroyed a city. This media focus is a tactic, just as the eighties focus on "welfare queens" and super-predators" obscured the simultaneous and much larger crimes of the Savings and Loan scams and mass layoffs, the hyper-exploited people of New Orleans are being used as a scapegoat to cover up much larger crimes.
City, state and national politicians are the real criminals here. Since at least the mid-1800s, its been widely known the danger faced by flooding to New Orleans. The flood of 1927, which, like this week's events, was more about politics and racism than any kind of natural disaster, illustrated exactly the danger faced. Yet government officials have consistently refused to spend the money to protect this poor, overwhelmingly black, city.
While FEMA and others warned of the urgent impending danger to New Orleans and put forward proposals for funding to reinforce and protect the city, the Bush administration, in every year since 2001, has cut or refused to fund New Orleans flood control, and ignored scientists warnings of increased hurricanes as a result of global warming. And, as the dangers rose with the floodlines, the lack of coordinated response dramatized vividly the callous disregard of our elected leaders.
The aftermath from the 1927 flood helped shape the elections of both a US President and a Governor, and ushered in the southern populist politics of Huey Long.
In the coming months, billions of dollars will likely flood into New Orleans. This money can either be spent to usher in a "New Deal" for the city, with public investment, creation of stable union jobs, new schools, cultural programs and housing restoration, or the city can be "rebuilt and revitalized" to a shell of its former self, with newer hotels, more casinos, and with chain stores and theme parks replacing the former neighborhoods, cultural centers and corner jazz clubs.
Long before Katrina, New Orleans was hit by a hurricane of poverty, racism, disinvestment, de-industrialization and corruption. Simply the damage from this pre-Katrina hurricane will take billions to repair.
Now that the money is flowing in, and the world's eyes are focused on Katrina, its vital that progressive-minded people take this opportunity to fight for a rebuilding with justice. New Orleans is a special place, and we need to fight for its rebirth.
-----------------------------------------------
Jordan Flaherty is an editor of Left Turn Magazine (www.leftturn.org).
-----------------------------------------------
New Meme -- Sunday Seven
A day late, but it is a holiday. New from Patrick's Place. Play along if you want.
Rank the seven deadly sins in the order that you most often commit them, one being the sin you're usually most guilty of, seven being the sin you're usually least guilty of.
This is tougher than I thought!
1. Lust
2. Gluttony
3. Pride
4. Anger
5. Sloth
6. Envy
7. Greed
Rank the seven deadly sins in the order that you most often commit them, one being the sin you're usually most guilty of, seven being the sin you're usually least guilty of.
This is tougher than I thought!
1. Lust
2. Gluttony
3. Pride
4. Anger
5. Sloth
6. Envy
7. Greed
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Fave Moments
People have been asking me my favourite moments from the concert and I haven't been able to answer, haven't been able to process, digest. But it's starting to filter.
Top Five:
5. Grand finale
4. Gord's rambling impromptu poetry fest
3. Opening of Stones, first sighting of Mick and boys
2. Our Lady Peace's Wipe That Smile Off Your Face order for George W. Fuckin' Bush
1. Paint It Black
Top Five:
5. Grand finale
4. Gord's rambling impromptu poetry fest
3. Opening of Stones, first sighting of Mick and boys
2. Our Lady Peace's Wipe That Smile Off Your Face order for George W. Fuckin' Bush
1. Paint It Black
A Bigger Bang
11:25 a.m. Wendy's Restaurant. Chicken fingers like a margarita, white-rimmed with salt, promise a thirsty day, too excited to eat anyway. Funky cellphone livens and everyone stares at the 30-somethings with a seventh grader ring tone. The message from the gate -- IT'S FUCKING AWESOME!!
12:45 p.m. traffic flow normal 2 west to Moncton. Exit 459B, follow the signs, follow the Nova Scotia plated car in front of us and the one in front of that. Stop. Cars line up bumper to bumper as far as the eye can see in either direction. RCMP helicopter sweeps the line in continous loop. C-103 plays Ozzie and Zeppelin, tells us gates open an hour early, arrival is happening smoothly, porta-potties are clean, leave our pot at home. Citizens of Irishtown pass on the shoulder, yell Just going home! out the window. Locals on lawn chairs drink beer, discuss the line, play Stones, Who, AC/DC. Truck in front of us switches drivers twice. Permed boys with shorts falling off leave car and enter woods. Helicopter hovers. Watching them?
1:30 p.m. parking lot 3, hillside field. All the way to the bottom, three rows from the woods. Apply sunscreen, attach ballcap, tie sweater around waist, fill soft-sided Alpine cooler with 4L water, blanket and more. 1K hike uphill to road. Andrew keeps up, wait by roadside for Sherry and Gary. No shuttlebus from this lot, must walk to concert site. Sun is hot. 15 minute trek finds local entrepreneurs with drive-way canteen, sign reads 1.5 km to Concert Site, pay $2 for small hike hydration. Uphill, downhill, through Gorge Road intersection, uphill, level, wait for group to re-assemble. People sell cool drinks, hot dogs, subs, chips and souvenirs from their driveways. Whisper of beer. Coolers behind RVs. Sneaky deals happen.
2:35 p.m. concert site at hand, see stage from road, people everywhere, amazing. Cellphone instructions say Tower 2. Descend into the throng. Gates, no problem. Weaving crowds, a specialty. Sherry worries I'll get too far ahead and be lost. I slow, seek path of least resistance. Darcy meets us at tower and leads us in -- on the barrier almost, 20 feet from the stage, right in front of the tongue on the left-hand side (when facing stage, not from onstage view). Favourite volunteer fireman calls to us from blanket perch . . . no wife at this concert either . . . hmmm. No time to investigate, show starts 3. Tom Petty CD on loud speakers while roadies tune guitars and sound check.
Time shifts, becomes music.
Les Trois Accords. Rocking sound breaks the language barrier. Heavy hitters. Recognise tunes from Live 8. Humble band, happy to be on the same bill as Stones. Thanks for coming early to see us, en francais. Crowd cheers. Excitement mounts.
Bathroom break. Early, maybe one person in pottie prior. Excellent. Fries for friends. Nothing for me. Still too excited to eat.
Our Lady Peace. Holy crap! This could be the best day of our lives. Want to take him home. Gorgeous clumsy man in fedora and black jacket lined with red satin. In conversation with George W. Fucking Bush, wipe that smile off your face. Crowd swells with Canadian pride, power fists.
Sneak forward and left, inch by inch, between acts.
Maroon 5. Charging toward ultimate rock orgasm when suddenly foreplay stops. Cute boys run the catwalk for close-up pics but enough already. Wanna dance, wanna sing, wanna rock, goddammit!
Tragically Hip. Goosebumps on goosebumps from Gord's poetry. Adorable NS boy grinds into blonde girlfriend held in front, me behind. Veins bulge on Gord's forehead, bloodshot face. Awesome. Oh my God, this is awesome. He is amazing. Amazing. We'll never forget this. Snap shots over my head, hope for something besides sky and washroom helium balloon. Gordie! Come this way! Run the walk for close-up! Kids drink beer out of water bottles, swallow X, smoke crack. Seniors smoke weed. VIP girls wear designer everything and elbow to the front. Rub against NS man in black tee, who thinks I can and should take down drunken ponytail boy in front of me, take pics with him, cuddle and tease. Having fun, dear? Blonde wife asks. Body surfers skim along upstretched hands, get tossed into waiting security arms and escorted out. Think many annoying partiers will pass out before final act. Many people already head to the fence, ask to be removed. Security pass out water bottles, lift people over fence, scuffle with drunken dudes . . . one person seriously restrained with RCMP handcuffs . . . one security guard sports new shiner.
Edge forward and left, while we still can. I can touch the fence (if two bodies were not obstructing reach), clear view of centre stage . . . you'll never get close, they said . . . HA! Long wait while roadies set up for the final act. Patience rules. Annoying VIPs return to too far away bleachers, drunken kids sober, stone into silence or vacate. Personal space shrinking. Wedged between two couples. Arms touching arms, hands brush my shoulders, hair, back, butt, breasts . . . no apologies necessary for unintentional feels. Difficult to stand on rocky ground carpeted with empty bottles and cans of varying crushed degrees. Onstage seats fill with contest winners, dignitaries, etc. Crowd electrifies and personal space shrinks again. No buffer now. Lady slices into us, sets up residence, severs me from the group. We wait like this for over an hour. Legs hurt. Back cramping. No air. Sherry taps my shoulder, not sure she can stay here, too short, can't breathe.
Super-tall guy beside me tells girlfriend more people have died at Rolling Stones concerts than any other band . . . and he can see why. People are going over the fence everywhere, unable to stay in the crowd. I people watch, focus, think, keep mind off closeness. I wish I had boy to shield me like these girls on either side. All day their boys have been the barrier between them and the drunks, positioning themselves to the front, rear or side as needed. Never had a boy like that, I think and hear one of my ghost boys whisper in memory that I never needed one. Who said that? Kevin maybe. But it would be nice to be able to reach back and know someone will take my hand and pull me out of this . . . if I need out of this.
And just when you begin to think you can't possibly stand another minute here, it's too hot, too close, too much . . .
The Rolling Stones. The stage explodes in colours, lights, sound. So close we can feel the heat off the pyro. Start me up and my heart is in my throat, screaming at the top of my lungs and then Mick Jagger and I'm gone, off my head. I can't fucking believe it! He's right there. The crowd is as stunned as I am I think because the amount of pushing and general annoying crowd stuff is the least of the entire day. I'm not even a fan and I'm overwhelmed with the emotion of it, singing every song, dancing, screaming beyond hoarse. Old tunes, new tunes, cover tunes, special effects and Jagger running from one end of the stage to the other. Stopping right in front of me, stuffing his mic into his pants so he can clap and dance, and I'm shaking so bad I don't know if I can get the picture. Use all my shots in the first few minutes. Having an out of body experience. This will never happen again. Nothing will ever be this good. Nothing can ever top this experience.
Black tee soaked with sweat, chills on spine, goosebumps on top of goosebumps, cheeks sore from smiling, throat sore from screaming and singing. A few songs in and four huge guys crash into us, literally collide, panicked, dragging a passed out or injured friend to the fence. I'm flung backward, instinctively reach to cushion my fall or steady and supertall boy grabs my hand, pulls me out of the way, keeps me upright. Aww! Thank you, universe. Having a hand to hold onto, as good as I imagined.
More songs and just before the stage separates, taking the band out into the audience, Sherry taps my shoulder. Can't stay, can't breathe, leaving, will meet later. But I'm ready for a new perspective too so I follow. We head back but can't get out. Break to the fence. She's lifted over. Gary's dropped over. And I'm left at the fence, wanting out, but nobody paying attention to me. RCMP sees me finally and helps over the barricade. I've never had to leave the front of a concert before. Out in the air, sitting on our blanket, Sherry feels bad at making everyone leave. But nobody is upset. It's good to sit, good to breathe and the different vantage point is good too. We climb to the centre of the hill and find a spot to sit and watch the rest of the show. It's equally amazing because now we can see the lazers across the sky, the full pyro effects, fireworks. We sing and dance and say, Awesome. Amazing. Oh my God! over and over until it ends.
We walk with thousands of people back to the parking lot. The walk is subdued, quiet even. We are like refugees sneaking through territory. It feels like a scene from a movie. One where some sort of disaster has happened or zombies have taken over the world and we are the survivors on mass exodus from the fallen city. In the dark, enterprising locals openly sell beer and shots by the side of the road. One can also buy snacks and cool drinks. We don't buy anything, anxious to get to the car and drive home. Now, I'm hungry. The walk seems to take less long, more downhill than uphill on the return. Organisers assumed a certain level of physical fitness amongst concert goers.
The lot is a nightmare. Many people don't even try to leave, change into jammies, pitch tents, bbq hamburgers, drink beer, play guitars . . . we're hungry and wanting to go home, unprepared to camp in parking lot. We move 100 feet in an hour and a half and then things begin to happen, a slow steady stream to the transcanada. On the highway, Sherry sleeps and I focus on the white light around the van because Gary is driving way too fast on this dark highway with much traffic, some of it drunken or at least weaving like drunken. Arrive Sackville in record time and in perfect condition. Wendy's is open until 3 a.m. and we enter the huge line-up inside. Out of chili. Out of potatoes. Out of side salads. Frazzled boy working cash wants to go home and sleep. He is freaked out by the line-up to the door that never gets any shorter. I get a burger on this second Wendy's excursion within 24 hours to take home.
My housemates are on the step when we pull in. Three boys hanging out at 3 am on the step. By the time we park and get out, they disappear into the house. Hiding? Shy? Too drunk for pleasantries? Too hungry to wonder. Wound tight too, but the Sturgeons are sleepy. I would stay up and have wine and blog into the dawn . . . but sleeping conditions are such that I need to either stay downstairs or go to bed too. I blog a line and opt for bed.
Mood: perma-grin
Drinking: coffee, lottsa cream
Listening To: Mozart Techno-Remixes
Hair: sun bleached
12:45 p.m. traffic flow normal 2 west to Moncton. Exit 459B, follow the signs, follow the Nova Scotia plated car in front of us and the one in front of that. Stop. Cars line up bumper to bumper as far as the eye can see in either direction. RCMP helicopter sweeps the line in continous loop. C-103 plays Ozzie and Zeppelin, tells us gates open an hour early, arrival is happening smoothly, porta-potties are clean, leave our pot at home. Citizens of Irishtown pass on the shoulder, yell Just going home! out the window. Locals on lawn chairs drink beer, discuss the line, play Stones, Who, AC/DC. Truck in front of us switches drivers twice. Permed boys with shorts falling off leave car and enter woods. Helicopter hovers. Watching them?
1:30 p.m. parking lot 3, hillside field. All the way to the bottom, three rows from the woods. Apply sunscreen, attach ballcap, tie sweater around waist, fill soft-sided Alpine cooler with 4L water, blanket and more. 1K hike uphill to road. Andrew keeps up, wait by roadside for Sherry and Gary. No shuttlebus from this lot, must walk to concert site. Sun is hot. 15 minute trek finds local entrepreneurs with drive-way canteen, sign reads 1.5 km to Concert Site, pay $2 for small hike hydration. Uphill, downhill, through Gorge Road intersection, uphill, level, wait for group to re-assemble. People sell cool drinks, hot dogs, subs, chips and souvenirs from their driveways. Whisper of beer. Coolers behind RVs. Sneaky deals happen.
2:35 p.m. concert site at hand, see stage from road, people everywhere, amazing. Cellphone instructions say Tower 2. Descend into the throng. Gates, no problem. Weaving crowds, a specialty. Sherry worries I'll get too far ahead and be lost. I slow, seek path of least resistance. Darcy meets us at tower and leads us in -- on the barrier almost, 20 feet from the stage, right in front of the tongue on the left-hand side (when facing stage, not from onstage view). Favourite volunteer fireman calls to us from blanket perch . . . no wife at this concert either . . . hmmm. No time to investigate, show starts 3. Tom Petty CD on loud speakers while roadies tune guitars and sound check.
Time shifts, becomes music.
Les Trois Accords. Rocking sound breaks the language barrier. Heavy hitters. Recognise tunes from Live 8. Humble band, happy to be on the same bill as Stones. Thanks for coming early to see us, en francais. Crowd cheers. Excitement mounts.
Bathroom break. Early, maybe one person in pottie prior. Excellent. Fries for friends. Nothing for me. Still too excited to eat.
Our Lady Peace. Holy crap! This could be the best day of our lives. Want to take him home. Gorgeous clumsy man in fedora and black jacket lined with red satin. In conversation with George W. Fucking Bush, wipe that smile off your face. Crowd swells with Canadian pride, power fists.
Sneak forward and left, inch by inch, between acts.
Maroon 5. Charging toward ultimate rock orgasm when suddenly foreplay stops. Cute boys run the catwalk for close-up pics but enough already. Wanna dance, wanna sing, wanna rock, goddammit!
Tragically Hip. Goosebumps on goosebumps from Gord's poetry. Adorable NS boy grinds into blonde girlfriend held in front, me behind. Veins bulge on Gord's forehead, bloodshot face. Awesome. Oh my God, this is awesome. He is amazing. Amazing. We'll never forget this. Snap shots over my head, hope for something besides sky and washroom helium balloon. Gordie! Come this way! Run the walk for close-up! Kids drink beer out of water bottles, swallow X, smoke crack. Seniors smoke weed. VIP girls wear designer everything and elbow to the front. Rub against NS man in black tee, who thinks I can and should take down drunken ponytail boy in front of me, take pics with him, cuddle and tease. Having fun, dear? Blonde wife asks. Body surfers skim along upstretched hands, get tossed into waiting security arms and escorted out. Think many annoying partiers will pass out before final act. Many people already head to the fence, ask to be removed. Security pass out water bottles, lift people over fence, scuffle with drunken dudes . . . one person seriously restrained with RCMP handcuffs . . . one security guard sports new shiner.
Edge forward and left, while we still can. I can touch the fence (if two bodies were not obstructing reach), clear view of centre stage . . . you'll never get close, they said . . . HA! Long wait while roadies set up for the final act. Patience rules. Annoying VIPs return to too far away bleachers, drunken kids sober, stone into silence or vacate. Personal space shrinking. Wedged between two couples. Arms touching arms, hands brush my shoulders, hair, back, butt, breasts . . . no apologies necessary for unintentional feels. Difficult to stand on rocky ground carpeted with empty bottles and cans of varying crushed degrees. Onstage seats fill with contest winners, dignitaries, etc. Crowd electrifies and personal space shrinks again. No buffer now. Lady slices into us, sets up residence, severs me from the group. We wait like this for over an hour. Legs hurt. Back cramping. No air. Sherry taps my shoulder, not sure she can stay here, too short, can't breathe.
Super-tall guy beside me tells girlfriend more people have died at Rolling Stones concerts than any other band . . . and he can see why. People are going over the fence everywhere, unable to stay in the crowd. I people watch, focus, think, keep mind off closeness. I wish I had boy to shield me like these girls on either side. All day their boys have been the barrier between them and the drunks, positioning themselves to the front, rear or side as needed. Never had a boy like that, I think and hear one of my ghost boys whisper in memory that I never needed one. Who said that? Kevin maybe. But it would be nice to be able to reach back and know someone will take my hand and pull me out of this . . . if I need out of this.
And just when you begin to think you can't possibly stand another minute here, it's too hot, too close, too much . . .
The Rolling Stones. The stage explodes in colours, lights, sound. So close we can feel the heat off the pyro. Start me up and my heart is in my throat, screaming at the top of my lungs and then Mick Jagger and I'm gone, off my head. I can't fucking believe it! He's right there. The crowd is as stunned as I am I think because the amount of pushing and general annoying crowd stuff is the least of the entire day. I'm not even a fan and I'm overwhelmed with the emotion of it, singing every song, dancing, screaming beyond hoarse. Old tunes, new tunes, cover tunes, special effects and Jagger running from one end of the stage to the other. Stopping right in front of me, stuffing his mic into his pants so he can clap and dance, and I'm shaking so bad I don't know if I can get the picture. Use all my shots in the first few minutes. Having an out of body experience. This will never happen again. Nothing will ever be this good. Nothing can ever top this experience.
Black tee soaked with sweat, chills on spine, goosebumps on top of goosebumps, cheeks sore from smiling, throat sore from screaming and singing. A few songs in and four huge guys crash into us, literally collide, panicked, dragging a passed out or injured friend to the fence. I'm flung backward, instinctively reach to cushion my fall or steady and supertall boy grabs my hand, pulls me out of the way, keeps me upright. Aww! Thank you, universe. Having a hand to hold onto, as good as I imagined.
More songs and just before the stage separates, taking the band out into the audience, Sherry taps my shoulder. Can't stay, can't breathe, leaving, will meet later. But I'm ready for a new perspective too so I follow. We head back but can't get out. Break to the fence. She's lifted over. Gary's dropped over. And I'm left at the fence, wanting out, but nobody paying attention to me. RCMP sees me finally and helps over the barricade. I've never had to leave the front of a concert before. Out in the air, sitting on our blanket, Sherry feels bad at making everyone leave. But nobody is upset. It's good to sit, good to breathe and the different vantage point is good too. We climb to the centre of the hill and find a spot to sit and watch the rest of the show. It's equally amazing because now we can see the lazers across the sky, the full pyro effects, fireworks. We sing and dance and say, Awesome. Amazing. Oh my God! over and over until it ends.
We walk with thousands of people back to the parking lot. The walk is subdued, quiet even. We are like refugees sneaking through territory. It feels like a scene from a movie. One where some sort of disaster has happened or zombies have taken over the world and we are the survivors on mass exodus from the fallen city. In the dark, enterprising locals openly sell beer and shots by the side of the road. One can also buy snacks and cool drinks. We don't buy anything, anxious to get to the car and drive home. Now, I'm hungry. The walk seems to take less long, more downhill than uphill on the return. Organisers assumed a certain level of physical fitness amongst concert goers.
The lot is a nightmare. Many people don't even try to leave, change into jammies, pitch tents, bbq hamburgers, drink beer, play guitars . . . we're hungry and wanting to go home, unprepared to camp in parking lot. We move 100 feet in an hour and a half and then things begin to happen, a slow steady stream to the transcanada. On the highway, Sherry sleeps and I focus on the white light around the van because Gary is driving way too fast on this dark highway with much traffic, some of it drunken or at least weaving like drunken. Arrive Sackville in record time and in perfect condition. Wendy's is open until 3 a.m. and we enter the huge line-up inside. Out of chili. Out of potatoes. Out of side salads. Frazzled boy working cash wants to go home and sleep. He is freaked out by the line-up to the door that never gets any shorter. I get a burger on this second Wendy's excursion within 24 hours to take home.
My housemates are on the step when we pull in. Three boys hanging out at 3 am on the step. By the time we park and get out, they disappear into the house. Hiding? Shy? Too drunk for pleasantries? Too hungry to wonder. Wound tight too, but the Sturgeons are sleepy. I would stay up and have wine and blog into the dawn . . . but sleeping conditions are such that I need to either stay downstairs or go to bed too. I blog a line and opt for bed.
Mood: perma-grin
Drinking: coffee, lottsa cream
Listening To: Mozart Techno-Remixes
Hair: sun bleached
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Saturday Six #73
From Patrick's Place, play if you wish.
1. What is the price of gas at your regular station? Have you made any changes to holiday plans because of gas prices?
I have no idea, as I don't drive. It's pretty high I would suspect. I have no concept of gas though. I can't relate. And I don't want to relate. People often wonder why I don't drive, especially given my rural living conditions when I was in Miramichi. Certainly growing up there as a kid I associated driving with independence, the freedom to move from point A to point B. But girls didn't generally run out and get their license at 16 back then, neither did boys for that matter. Cars were huge luxury items you had to buy and maintain on your own without Mommy and Daddy's money. It just wasn't happening until after high school, until full-time employment. Still, I had my permit the summer I graduated, before I moved to Toronto. I just never got around to taking the driving test. When I moved I soon realised you didn't need to drive to have independence and freedom to move from point A to point B . . . in fact, poor people like me, usually couldn't afford a vehicle but could still get where they needed to go just fine. In Toronto, getting somewhere using public transit was often a helluva lot easier than the traffic and parking hassle of a vehicle. I got my permit again when I moved home. I had a full-time job and a boyfriend, who had a car, frequently drank too much and needed a sober girlfriend to drive him home. Within weeks of getting my permit I moved back to Toronto and public transit. Never got it again. In the beginning I had a phobia -- If I get my permit, I'll move to Toronto and I really don't want to go back right now. Then I didn't want to get my license just for spite -- who wants to spend their life hauling around drunken boyfriend and band of merry men? But now it's more a matter of responsibility I think. I don't want to own a car, can't afford to own a car. I don't want the distraction of being the driver, not able to really see everything out all the windows on the road trip. Maybe someday, but not now. So why not just have a license? To be able to drive just in case? . . . Well, I can drive, just in case. It might not be legal but I can do it. Why bother with the formality, when I'm only going to use it in case of emergencies? Without a license I'm never on the list of possible sober drivers. It takes me out of the running for many potential responsibilities . . . and that suits me just fine.
2. Some people feel that the song that was #1 when they were born somehow helps shape their life. Which song was #1 when you were born, according to this site. Do you think it relates to your life at all?
Number One on the U.S. charts the day I was born -- The Beatles, Get Back. I don't feel like this song has helped shape my life really, but I have overcome some issues with regard to getting "back to where you once belonged." Soooo, maybe there is something to this theory.
3. Take this quiz: Which child does it say you are? Is it correct about your birth order?
Not correct, as I am first born . . . yet . . . newspaper reporter, vulnerable moments, pleasing the loved one etc. ring somewhat true.
4. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #61 from De: What animal do you equate your spirit with and why? (This site may be helpful.)
Many years ago I was shown in a dream that the wolf is my totem. And reading this description, it would seem to be true.
5. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #62 from Psychfun: If you had to describe your personality as a nut (as in the eatable kind) what nut would you be and why?
Hazelnut. Prickly outer shell. Rich full flavour inside.
6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #63 from Chris: Who knows the "real" you better - - your real world friends or your blog readers?
Probably the real world, which makes up a lot of my blog readers, but I'm tempted to say neither because I keep a lot to myself.
1. What is the price of gas at your regular station? Have you made any changes to holiday plans because of gas prices?
I have no idea, as I don't drive. It's pretty high I would suspect. I have no concept of gas though. I can't relate. And I don't want to relate. People often wonder why I don't drive, especially given my rural living conditions when I was in Miramichi. Certainly growing up there as a kid I associated driving with independence, the freedom to move from point A to point B. But girls didn't generally run out and get their license at 16 back then, neither did boys for that matter. Cars were huge luxury items you had to buy and maintain on your own without Mommy and Daddy's money. It just wasn't happening until after high school, until full-time employment. Still, I had my permit the summer I graduated, before I moved to Toronto. I just never got around to taking the driving test. When I moved I soon realised you didn't need to drive to have independence and freedom to move from point A to point B . . . in fact, poor people like me, usually couldn't afford a vehicle but could still get where they needed to go just fine. In Toronto, getting somewhere using public transit was often a helluva lot easier than the traffic and parking hassle of a vehicle. I got my permit again when I moved home. I had a full-time job and a boyfriend, who had a car, frequently drank too much and needed a sober girlfriend to drive him home. Within weeks of getting my permit I moved back to Toronto and public transit. Never got it again. In the beginning I had a phobia -- If I get my permit, I'll move to Toronto and I really don't want to go back right now. Then I didn't want to get my license just for spite -- who wants to spend their life hauling around drunken boyfriend and band of merry men? But now it's more a matter of responsibility I think. I don't want to own a car, can't afford to own a car. I don't want the distraction of being the driver, not able to really see everything out all the windows on the road trip. Maybe someday, but not now. So why not just have a license? To be able to drive just in case? . . . Well, I can drive, just in case. It might not be legal but I can do it. Why bother with the formality, when I'm only going to use it in case of emergencies? Without a license I'm never on the list of possible sober drivers. It takes me out of the running for many potential responsibilities . . . and that suits me just fine.
2. Some people feel that the song that was #1 when they were born somehow helps shape their life. Which song was #1 when you were born, according to this site. Do you think it relates to your life at all?
Number One on the U.S. charts the day I was born -- The Beatles, Get Back. I don't feel like this song has helped shape my life really, but I have overcome some issues with regard to getting "back to where you once belonged." Soooo, maybe there is something to this theory.
3. Take this quiz: Which child does it say you are? Is it correct about your birth order?
| You Are Likely a Third Born |
 At your darkest moments, you feel vulnerable. At work and school, you do best when you're comparing things. When you love someone, you tend to like to please them. In friendship, you are loyal to one person. Your ideal careers are: sales, police officer, newspaper reporter, inventor, poet, and animal trainer. You will leave your mark on the world with inventions, poetry, and inspiration. |
Not correct, as I am first born . . . yet . . . newspaper reporter, vulnerable moments, pleasing the loved one etc. ring somewhat true.
4. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #61 from De: What animal do you equate your spirit with and why? (This site may be helpful.)
Many years ago I was shown in a dream that the wolf is my totem. And reading this description, it would seem to be true.
5. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #62 from Psychfun: If you had to describe your personality as a nut (as in the eatable kind) what nut would you be and why?
Hazelnut. Prickly outer shell. Rich full flavour inside.
6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #63 from Chris: Who knows the "real" you better - - your real world friends or your blog readers?
Probably the real world, which makes up a lot of my blog readers, but I'm tempted to say neither because I keep a lot to myself.
Concert Day
The walls are thin. Somebody unpacked into the wee hours last night, just a few feet from my head where I lay trying to get some sleep. It's bad when you can hear every creak, every suitcase zipper, from the other apartment. One of these boys is pretty heavy on his feet, lots of clumping around going on over there. Huge party last night somewhere, perhaps like a pep rally in the fields? Not sure. But hundreds were whooping and singing and chanting and cheering. I had to close the windows in order to hear the tv.
Caught part of a movie on Bravo called Strip Search that was very interesting. Glenn Close was in it. I wished I had caught the whole thing from the beginning, maybe it'll be on again. Basically there were two scenes playing out at the same time. In one an American woman was being interrogated in a Chinese prison or someplace foreign like that where people's rights are not huge and you can go missing. In the other Glenn Close was an American agent interrogating a suspected male Al-Qaeda terrorist. It was especially interesting because both scenes had the same lines. Glenn Close ordered him to take his clothes off, she was going to do a full cavity search . . . and then the scene switched with the interrogator in Bangkok or wherever saying the same lines and the American woman responding with the same lines as the suspect with Glenn Close.
What an effective juxtaposition! The outrage at a white woman being treated this way, the inhumanity of it all, the terrible loss of rights and freedoms, the terror of being her, the humiliation of the search. Meanwhile, the American government does the exact same thing . . . and that's okay? The only difference in the scenes comes right at the end -- after a long interrogation and search, when shown pictures of men (terrorists) and asked once again whether they know them, the woman caves and admits she does, the man insists he doesn't. Both interrogators announce that their job is done and someone else will be in to talk with them. The male interrogator is congratulated for breaking the woman, getting a confession, while we watch her freaking out in the room, knocking over furniture and breaking chairs in anger. In the American scene, Glenn Close walks toward an elevator unsuccessful in her interrogation. She pauses in the hall for a second as we hear the suspected terrorist screaming from being tortured . . . and then she continues, gets on the elevator and leaves. A narrator asks how long you'd be willing to give up your rights and freedoms to end terrorism, an hour? a day? a week? a month? a year? . . . forever? Words on the screen tell how many people were confined and interrogated after 9-11 without due process. Overall, very effective I thought.
Later I caught the last of Best in Show on CBC and laughed my guts out again. I thought I was going to die again, when Parker Posey is looking for the bumblebee squeak toy. Cracks me up everytime. I should get this dvd.
So, today is the day and it's beautiful outside! Blue as far as the eye can see, warm temps already. The Hip is blaring. My freaking out has calmed somewhat, I'm starting to go into rock chill mode . . . gonna be a long road into Moncton methinks, needing lots of patience. You'll not hear from me again until I'm back and it's done. I'll have a fabulous time for sure. Catch ya later!
Mood: waking up slowly
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: The Tragically Hip, New Orleans is Sinking
Hair: bed messy
Caught part of a movie on Bravo called Strip Search that was very interesting. Glenn Close was in it. I wished I had caught the whole thing from the beginning, maybe it'll be on again. Basically there were two scenes playing out at the same time. In one an American woman was being interrogated in a Chinese prison or someplace foreign like that where people's rights are not huge and you can go missing. In the other Glenn Close was an American agent interrogating a suspected male Al-Qaeda terrorist. It was especially interesting because both scenes had the same lines. Glenn Close ordered him to take his clothes off, she was going to do a full cavity search . . . and then the scene switched with the interrogator in Bangkok or wherever saying the same lines and the American woman responding with the same lines as the suspect with Glenn Close.
What an effective juxtaposition! The outrage at a white woman being treated this way, the inhumanity of it all, the terrible loss of rights and freedoms, the terror of being her, the humiliation of the search. Meanwhile, the American government does the exact same thing . . . and that's okay? The only difference in the scenes comes right at the end -- after a long interrogation and search, when shown pictures of men (terrorists) and asked once again whether they know them, the woman caves and admits she does, the man insists he doesn't. Both interrogators announce that their job is done and someone else will be in to talk with them. The male interrogator is congratulated for breaking the woman, getting a confession, while we watch her freaking out in the room, knocking over furniture and breaking chairs in anger. In the American scene, Glenn Close walks toward an elevator unsuccessful in her interrogation. She pauses in the hall for a second as we hear the suspected terrorist screaming from being tortured . . . and then she continues, gets on the elevator and leaves. A narrator asks how long you'd be willing to give up your rights and freedoms to end terrorism, an hour? a day? a week? a month? a year? . . . forever? Words on the screen tell how many people were confined and interrogated after 9-11 without due process. Overall, very effective I thought.
Later I caught the last of Best in Show on CBC and laughed my guts out again. I thought I was going to die again, when Parker Posey is looking for the bumblebee squeak toy. Cracks me up everytime. I should get this dvd.
So, today is the day and it's beautiful outside! Blue as far as the eye can see, warm temps already. The Hip is blaring. My freaking out has calmed somewhat, I'm starting to go into rock chill mode . . . gonna be a long road into Moncton methinks, needing lots of patience. You'll not hear from me again until I'm back and it's done. I'll have a fabulous time for sure. Catch ya later!
Mood: waking up slowly
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: The Tragically Hip, New Orleans is Sinking
Hair: bed messy
Friday, September 02, 2005
SOLD!
And Andrew pulls it off! Gets the day off at the last possible moment and our threesome becomes four, a full carload, Moncton bound in the am, hook up with S&D, and freak right the f- out! Sherry calls me earlier to get me to watch ATV and I do . . . and I have not been the same since, seeing the scene of the crime, seeing the highways . . . Good Lord Man! We're going to The Rolling Stones! Me and Sherry freaking out simultaneously on the phone as full realisation sinks in.
Gonna have awesome weather too. Couldn't ask for anything better.
Seriously planning the trip in October . . . seriously. Got four books on the go, four projects, at least four extra incomes. I could go. Checked airfares even. Flying from Fredericton costs more than Moncton, what's up with that? And I'm thinking I'll be in Fredericton day before I need to leave . . . although if you take in bus fare to get me from Fredville back to Monkeyton, perhaps it evens out. Can I do that kind of a trip? Two stop-overs, with no homebase in between? That's pretty intense. Windsor Castle to Harbourfront. I'm seriously thinking this is the year it's all possible.
Mood: freaking
Drinking: Banrock Station
Listening To: Hendrix
Hair: outta hand
Gonna have awesome weather too. Couldn't ask for anything better.
Seriously planning the trip in October . . . seriously. Got four books on the go, four projects, at least four extra incomes. I could go. Checked airfares even. Flying from Fredericton costs more than Moncton, what's up with that? And I'm thinking I'll be in Fredericton day before I need to leave . . . although if you take in bus fare to get me from Fredville back to Monkeyton, perhaps it evens out. Can I do that kind of a trip? Two stop-overs, with no homebase in between? That's pretty intense. Windsor Castle to Harbourfront. I'm seriously thinking this is the year it's all possible.
Mood: freaking
Drinking: Banrock Station
Listening To: Hendrix
Hair: outta hand
Another Arrival
From the skylight he looks short, stocky, ball cap on backwards, interesting laugh . . . black rock t-shirt, baggy jeans . . . it's a whole fuckin' house, man, a whole fuckin' house . . . kinda Jack Blackish with a little designer stubble going on . . . hmmm . . .
New Store
Check out the new Bread 'n Molasses Store!
We've gone a little retail with some nice stuff shipped right to your door. Prices are in US$. There's a variety of clothing and novelty items featuring the Bread 'n Molasses "It sorta sticks to ya!" logo.
A little something for everyone -- housewares, hats, bags, buttons, stickers, ladies wear, men's wear, apparel for children and yes, there's even a sweater for dogs. Check it out.
We've gone a little retail with some nice stuff shipped right to your door. Prices are in US$. There's a variety of clothing and novelty items featuring the Bread 'n Molasses "It sorta sticks to ya!" logo.
A little something for everyone -- housewares, hats, bags, buttons, stickers, ladies wear, men's wear, apparel for children and yes, there's even a sweater for dogs. Check it out.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Sightings
And we have a boy. Artist? Architecture? He's got design tubes. Daddy is moving his bedding into the upstairs as I write. Stern father, seems worried or concerned about this living arrangement, putting Jacques through the paces in the drive. The boy tries to make light, tries to shush even. Methinks he wants Daddy to go home, embarrassed, being treated like a kid. Kinda cute in that clean-cut kinda way . . . wonder if he wants to go to the Rolling Stones . . .
No sign of the others yet. Two more boys I think and a girl. And so it begins for real.
Mood: space cadet-like
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Someday I'll be Saturday Night (demo)
Hair: slicked
No sign of the others yet. Two more boys I think and a girl. And so it begins for real.
Mood: space cadet-like
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Someday I'll be Saturday Night (demo)
Hair: slicked
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