I Love The Old World

Take Care

2010-10-06T21:07:00.000-07:00

B and I went to the ROM today. There was a little exhibition on the way to the Bat Cave about a program called House Calls with my Camera, wherein Dr. Mark Nowaczynski takes care of the elderly, often those without support systems or family to help them, and helps them with whatever it is (someone to clean for them, Meals on Wheels, etc.) that they need to be happier and healthier. He also takes photographs of his clients. In some of them, they are smiling or looking feisty; in others, they have, as one caption reads, lost [their] spark.

Some of these people always lived alone. Others had husbands or wives, children and loved ones, although few had any contact with family (only one couple was photographed and during the time the doctor was seeing them, the husband passed away). All our lives we make connections and, if we're lucky, feel loved. How many of us feel that love at the end of our lives? I'm so far removed from my parents, and even further removed from 99% of the rest of my family. What happens to me if I live to be 70, 80, 90. I'm not lying when I say that thought scares the living daylights out of me.

In some of the prints, people posed with old photos of themselves, taken when they were young and smiling, seemingly carefree. I'm not sure I've ever been carefree; they probably weren't either, but were captured with smiles and pretty dresses all the same.

It reminded me of this song by Big Star:

Take Care (Alex Chilton)
Take care not to hurt yourself
Beware of the need for help
You might need too much
And people are such
Take care, please, take care
Some people read idea books
And some people have pretty looks
But if your eyes are wideAnd all words aside
Take care, please, take care
This sounds a bit like goodbye
In a way it is I guess
As I leave your sideI've taken the air
Take care, please, take care
Take care, please, take care

Resuming

2010-08-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

I can write about a lot of things. Just off the top of my head, I can probably list 500 people/places/events/etc. that I know enough about to fill a page or two. Not just fill a page, but tell a story in an interesting, concise and, I hope, enjoyable way. So why do I have such a difficult time listing and qualifying what I've done with my professional life? Why is creating my own resume such a painful experience? I know it's partly because I've let some great opportunities slip through my fingers. But I do have accomplishments under my belt, too. I've been reading resume-writing blogs for inspiration. Hell, I'm even going to a life coach and she's helping me significantly. Still, when I sit down to do my homework, it feels like my skull is filled with insulation where my brain used to be.

A Little Fiction

2010-07-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

Teenage Hematology
Samantha picks at the scab on her knee, sliding a nail under the flaky edge, then digging deeper, wincing as she hits the soft, red core. Beneath her, the porch swing moans with every shift of weight, every movement. Fluffy clouds move briskly overhead and she wonders how long the sun will keep shining. Samantha pulls her finger out of the wound and examines her work. With one swift motion she tears new flesh from old.

“Sssuh!”

Her knee glistens as Samantha rolls the thick, sticky scab between her fingers, shaping it into a ball. She straightens her leg and watches the trickle of blood wend its way down her shin. She licks the scab ball once, twice, before letting it settle on her tongue. She dances it around her teeth and gums; salt and iron linger on her taste buds.

She considers getting a glass of water, but decides against going inside the house where her brother’s playing video games with his buddy and ignoring his girlfriend’s phone calls. He will go to his summer job bagging groceries later, leaving Samantha alone for an hour or two before their parents come home to make supper and ask her what she did today. Samantha jiggles her leg, which just makes it hurt more.

Two doors down, Kevin Doherty eases his new car into the driveway. The radio, which he’s been blaring, cuts off abruptly when he kills the motor. Samantha watches him take his briefcase from the backseat, lock the doors and run his hand through his hair. “He needs a haircut,” Samantha thinks as she bites into the remains of the scab and grinds it between her teeth. She adjusts her sunglasses and wills herself invisible.

Kevin notices her and waves.

“Hey Sam, how’s it going?”

“I’m OK, Mr. Doherty. How are you?” Samantha smiles, but barely. Still, Kevin approaches.

“Hey, what happened to your leg?”

“Ah, nothing,” Samantha moves to cover her knee. She turns her face away from his.

Kevin tosses his bag on the porch and takes a seat on the swing. Samantha likes her parents’ friend well enough, but she hasn’t invited him onto the porch or to sit down beside her. She can smell his soap, but also his sweat. She’s pretty certain he smells her, too. The thought that right now he is sitting there, smiling, and smelling her crushes her chest under the weight of embarrassment; she draws her knees up and clenches her thigh muscles tight. The swing groans.

Kevin rocks the swing a bit and Sam feels his anticipation. He starts humming the chorus of the song he’d been blasting on his drive home. He starts tapping out the beat on his legs and Samantha’s eyes lock on the way his little belly shakes. Sam recalls overhearing her mom and Mrs. Doherty about her husband’s padded waistline and how she needs to find herself a hot younger guy. She watches the man from down the street sing this corny song and feels her cheeks sear with shame.

“Oooh… we’re halfway there… Oh-oh… Livin’ on a Pray-yer…”

Pain scorches Sam’s knee and she cringes. Kevin notices the look on her face and stops mid-chorus.

“Sorry.”

“What? Oh, no, sing if you want,” Samantha doesn’t mean to make him feel bad, but now Kevin’s presence is even more intrusive.

“M-my leg just hurts pretty bad,” she adds.

Kevin smiles with fatherly concern, “So, you gonna tell me why there’s blood all over your leg?”

“Hhhhhhh…” Samantha exhales languidly, “Didn’t you ever pick a scab just to know?”

Kevin raises his eyebrows as Samantha peers at him over her sunglasses. Her eyes are almost the same shade as her tanned skin. She tilts her head and lets him consider the question, then moves her face a fraction closer to his; now the scent of his lunch mingles with those other things. “Well?”

He nods and leans back a little. “How old are you now, Sam?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“So, what are you doing this summer? Aren’t you going to camp with Becca and Megan?”

“Nope.”

“Babysitting? Volunteering?”

“No.”

Sam pushes the glasses up her nose. When she was in kindergarten, she liked to paint pictures of houses and horses that looked more like dogs than anything equine. She gave these pictures to her parents and grandparents, who dutifully displayed them on the refrigerator. On Friday nights when Mr. and Mrs. Doherty and Sam’s parents played cards and drank from glasses tinkling with ice and garnished with lemon slices and maraschino cherries, Sam and her brother would watch TV and draw. At the end of the night, the Dohertys would leave with one of her masterpieces. Sam chokes up at the memory, but swallows her tears with a forceful shake of her head.

Kevin’s been silent for a while and Samantha hopes that by staying still and keeping her breathing light and shallow, maybe he’ll get tired and go home. She feels her heart beat in her neck and imagines the movement of blood throughout her body. She closes her eyes and watches the confetti explode behind her lids. Her butt tingles with numbness; she’s been sitting there a while.

Around her, the street breathes. Birds sing and build nests; kids ride bikes and hit each other with badminton racquets; mothers gossip and drink afternoon Bloody Marys. Car doors slam. Keys slide into locks and turn. Televisions hum. Telephones ring and ring. Samantha inhales. Exhales. Listens. Waits. Silent.

My Problem with Cougars

2010-06-25T10:28:00.001-07:00

I just read about the National Cougar Convention. Taking place in Illinois, hundreds of people -- assumedly "older" women and younger men -- are expected to congregate to meet, mingle and potentially hook up.

First of all, I have no issue with women being older than their partners. I'm six years older than my husband, which is nothing compared to the age differential between many women who call themselves cougars and the men who date them, but still it's enough that eyebrows sometimes raise or people respond with a 'good for you' when I tell them how old we are. We married young - young for me, younger for him - and at the time I jokingly called him my child bride. Obviously, he was neither. When we met, neither one of us had any dream of weddings and walking down the aisle. But for one reason or another, we decided to make our togetherness legal. We've now been married almost 12 years and it feels fine.

So, what's my issue with cougars? Well, first off, it's the name. Did these women name themselves or did some pundit coin the term? And if it was a pundit, I'm pretty sure it was a man. Why would any woman want to see herself as a predator? Sure, cougars, in their four-legged form, are sleek and beautiful, but they're also ready to spring and attack on their prey, teeth bared and ready to pull flesh from bone. Is this really how women over 40 (actually, I've heard women in their 30s be lumped into this categorization, too) want to be seen? If you're youthful and take care of yourself, do you want to sink your teeth into your "victim".

A woman in the article about the conference says that cougars are a by-product of Kim Cattrall's character on Sex and the City and celebrities like Madonna dating younger men. But while older men have long made a public display of flaunting young women on their arms, there have also been plenty of women who date/marry/have relationships with men their junior. In my own family, my aunt spent many years with a man who was probably 15 years younger. In many ways, she was his mentor, having made a name and comfortable life for herself in the arts. Just as she had been introduced to that life through her ex-husband, she gave him access to her world. They also seemed to enjoy each other's company (although, frankly, how anyone could enjoy my aunt's company, I'll never know).

It saddens me that women's rights are now, in some communities, reduced to having the "right" to wear killer heels, get plastic surgery and a fake-and-bake tan, and go out hunting for men. Yes, people should enjoy their lives, but how long can a woman be a predator before she herself gets shot down or discarded by the pack?

Joanne's Slow Food Revolution

2010-06-23T12:21:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about what to do with my life. I guess I always think about that, but right now, when I'm not working a full-time job and I have lots of solitary moments, I'm giving the meaning of life a lot of consideration.

Before I started my last job, I swore that I was going to have a fresh start and stop thinking almost exclusively about music. Well, I did get somewhat of a fresh start, but it was still a music-related gig. The thing is I love music. I think about it, talk about it, lament over it. But I really do think it's time to let it go. Not in my day-to-day life, but as a subject matter for my so-called career.

So, what do I want to do? Mostly, I want to feed people. No, more specifically I want to help people feed themselves. Since I stopped eating meat in high school, I've spent a lot of time thinking about food and nutrition. During university, while working at an on-campus cafe, I added more cooking skills to the repertoire I'd learned from my mum (who taught me the invaluable lesson of how to make a nutritious meal with few ingredients and leaving nothing to waste). When I was diagnosed with Type 2 Dibetes a few years ago, I started thinking more about blood sugar and the glycemic index. I dream of having enough outdoor space to plant a garden -- or even hanging some upside-down planters. I want to keep bees.

I was really inspired by Jamie Oliver's speech that he gave at his reception for the TED prize(http://www.ted.com/talks/jamie_oliver.html). I've long been a fan of Jamie's no-nonsense approach to cooking, which began with the Naked Chef, which, I think, did a lot to demystify food for a lot of people. But it's Oliver's large-scale projects -- School Dinners, Food Revolution, Ministry of Food -- that are really inspiring. Yes, people without the big name work tirelessly to stop the glut(tony) of fast food and change the way people consume. But having television cameras and Oliver's energy behind these projects has brought them the wide-spread attention they deserve.

So, what does that have to do with me? Well, when I think of what I'd really like to do with my time, the answer is that I'd like to work for Jamie Oliver. He's talked about having grocery store ambassadors, which I think is brilliant: someone to decipher labels and help people make wise decisions about what to purchase. Setting up a program like that would be my dream job. Or bringing a program like Food Revolution to Parkdale. Or educating people about the perils of soda pop (which I think is as insidious as big tobacco). My list of food/nutrition-based interest is never-ending.

So, how do I get there? Any ideas?

I Believe in the Good of Life

2010-02-15T19:07:00.000-08:00

Last night was Wavelength 500, the final installment of the weekly Sunday night concert series that first appeared 10 years ago. Back then, its co-founder, Jonathan, and I shared office space at one of Toronto's alt weeklies, so I heard a lot about the series' nasence and I like to think my enthusiasm for bands like The Hidden Cameras and Royal City encouraged those bands to be booked. Hell, even if I'm the only one who thinks that, I stand by it.

It's not an understatement to say that Wavelength coaxed significant change in this city's music scene. It was an event; something that brought people out, even on a Sunday night. The PWYC policy meant that you could take a gamble on an unheard of band without it costing the price of a week's worth of groceries.

An early and avid supporter, I admit that I haven't been much in recent years. There was a time, about five years back, when there was a significant shift in the vibe. Yes, it was still enthusiastic about music, but some of the old faces fell away and to be completely honest, I didn't feel like hanging out with the kids. This isn't a negative thing; it was just time for someone new to take my spot at stage left.

So, last night was the grand finale. For me, the biggest draw -- apart from bidding a fond farewell to this legendary Toronto event -- was the reunion of the band Neck. Neck began as a three-piece - Dave Rodgers, Paul Boddum and Andrew McCallister - and grew to add the aforementioned Jonny "Dovercourt" Bunce and become Christiana. They were the band I took Brad to see the first night he visited me. They played Club Shanghai on a bill that also included the late, lamented Pecola. Maybe ironically, Brad and I celebrated our 11th anniversary on Saturday night. It was a sweet little walk down memory lane. Adding to the sweetness is that I think Neck's songs "Ladybug" and "Daydreaming" are two excellent examples of under-two-minute pop songs. Concise, punchy and full of charm.

There was a lot of happiness in the room last night, which perhaps escalated when Owen Pallet came out for a not-so-surprise set. He gets better all the time and even at a less formal event like last night, his intensity is awe-inspiring.

And when I didn't think anything could cap the night - which also included old shoegaze favourites Mean Red Spiders, Barcelona Pavilion (who I wasn't in love with when they were together a few years ago, but totally loved them last night), Kids on TV and Thomas - better than Owen, he announced (OK, truth be told, I'd been informed earlier) that most of the original Hidden Cameras (plus some later members and friends) would be singing a song.

The song was "I Believe in the Good of Life" and seeing Maggie, Owen, Steve, Magale, Dave, Mathias and Joel, along with Reg and Lex, singing and smiling and jumping around was absolutely the greatest ending any night or music series could've had. I sort of lost my mind with joy and a bit of nostalgia for days gone by. So many friends were there - Steve, Colin, Michael and Helen, all those band folks, Ryan, Katie M, Kat... I'm sure there were more - and from various eras of my life. Realizing I've known Joel for almost 20 years is sort of mind-blowing; knowing that a friend wrote a song as perfect as "Good of Life" makes me realize just how great my life is.

Thank you.

Auld Lang Syne

2010-01-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! My only resolutions for the year are to stop eating out (except for occasional Golden Turtle bun) and to update this more often. Otherwise, I just want to continue the positive steps (joining the Y and the ROM, giving more to charity, working at a job I really enjoy, signing up for a short story writing class) I took last year. I figure that's all reasonable and likely to last.

2009 was a doozy of a year. I lost my job at the end of 2008 and spent the first few months of the year in a bit of a funk that was only fed by the loss of loved ones. By mid-year I was initially hired for five weeks to do the job I'm returning to on Monday - five weeks to seven months, not bad. Although it remains a contract, it's an interesting job for now and it has done a lot to help me restore confidence in myself. It isn't an overstatement to say I felt a bit lost for a couple of years... actually from 2004 until the end of 2009. That's quite a while. I knew I loved Brad, but otherwise, I was sort of adrift. I feel way more focused now, more confident.

I saw more of my Nana this year, which is nice. She re-told me stories I've heard all my life - about the way she met my Grandad and what things were like during WWII - stories that are part of my internal fabric, stories I fear will be lost one day. I introduced her to sushi and Ethiopian food. Don't tell me you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

I've spent a lot of time listening to Yo La Tengo, Neil Young and The Thermals this year. Today I heard the new Besnard Lakes, which is pretty stunning. I have to admit I like the tv show Glee.

I'm trying to see people I care about as much as possible. I miss Jamie and I don't want to spend my whole life regretting time not spent with those I love.

Inside Your Guitar

2009-11-10T18:16:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago - somewhere around the time that Pitchfork started dictating people's tastes and I started getting bored and/or angry at any show that wasn't absolutely rock 'n' roll or that I could guarantee would include at least one song that on most days would make my Top 20 of All Time (which of course fluctuates a lot, but almost always includes songs by a number of people/bands that are no longer with us, so that decreases the likelihood of that guarantee by a pretty high percentage) - I started to ignore those bands that, for lack of better description, could be categorized at indie pop. One of the main reasons for that were the influx of '80s-sounding synthesizers. Yes, I love Devo. And I adore Duran Duran's "Planet Earth". Yep, The Cars, too. Hell, I'd put Kajagoogoo on that list of bands I'd go to see because give me "Too Shy" over anything in the Top 10 today. But I don't like irony and there was a time in the early '00s when everything was too quirky or just too wussy. Not twee, not sweet, not cute... wussy. I love a boy in a cardigan as much as - more than - the next girl, but I don't want to listen to some boy opine over his lost love when it doesn't even seem like he had a love to lose in the first place.

Then there was the post-Neutral Milk Hotel cavalcade of random noises. If you can't write a song as good as "Holland, 1945", please don't start clanging pots and pans and thinking you're innovative.

Basically, I got older, crankier and far more interested in Dan Kroha than in The Decemberists.

But today I put on Inside Your Guitar by It Hugs Back for the second time. Then I played it again. And then I went back to the song "Back Down" and played that a couple more times. Then I watched the video for "Work Day." Then I stopped myself from skipping down the hall -- actually, the height of my heels stopped me because I can barely walk in those damn shoes, but I'm trying -- to tell the person who loaned me the record how much I was loving it. While I initially balked at the band's name - It Hugs Back? Reeeallly? - I've now embraced it (heh.). Toe-tappingly catchy, there's some genuine songwriting here and some of those lead guitar parts remind me of Doubleday, one of the best bands to not see its potential to ever come out of Toronto.

It Hugs Back is signed to 4AD, which is also a good sign for both band and label.

He's Got Wandering Eyes

2009-11-06T20:48:00.000-08:00

I used to make a zine. It was a scrappy little mini-comic that made no bones about my lack of skill as an artist, but it was heartfelt and contained some decent turns of phrase. In one issue, I wrote about going to see Yo La Tengo with a group of friends, shortly before my birthday. I think I was about to turn 27. That was 12 years ago.

The night written about in my zine included a wonderful cast of friends, including Patti, Jonathan, Ned, Alexes L and M (at least, I think Alex M was there). It was a great night. I loved my friends with a fierceness I didn't know could exist in post-high school relationships. The music was terrific and somehow the Opera House was transformed into something good. I harboured a crush on at least a dozen people; one of them was the right one.

Time has altered those friendships. Some are stronger, others have all but disappeared. It's rare that live music holds the transformative power it once did for me. The last couple of times I've seen YLT didn't have those breath-capturing moments that used to occur all the time. I considered not going to the show.

Considered it.

And that night, there was Brad, Shannon and Jenny: three that I hold dearer than gold. And there was Anu and Alex E. (why are there so many Alexes in my life? not that i'm complaining) and Alex's friend Neville and his friends who I met but only briefly. There were pre-show beers and the meeting of old and new. Everyone was funny and charming and cute and smart (which, when I think about it, describes most of my friends): I'm so fucking lucky. Even before we went to the venue -- the Opera House which is so often stinky -- I felt the surge, the golden, warming spirit, the unrelenting joy.

And then Yo La Tengo opened with "Double Dare".

Different Seasons

2009-09-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

It's autumn. Always my favourite season. I liked buying school supplies. I hated shopping for clothes and the fights with my mum that would ensue over my weight, my size, and my taste. Still, apart from the dreaded gym class, I loved school. I wanted to read every book, draw every picture, and get every answer right. Not that I did. In fact, by the time high school hit, I was a pretty average student, except for English and History. I was less than average at math, but I wasn't until grade 9. I sort of blame the teacher for caring more about the boys who didn't need his help than about the rest of us. I sort of blame the way I started caring more about music and words than numbers.

I like numbers now. I'm not afraid of them anymore. Maybe I should go to Sylvain Learning Centres and finally learn all those things I didn't learn in grade 12.

After the grief that took up so much of this past summer, I'm looking forward to the crisp air and the crunchy leaves. I'm glad this weekend includes Shannon, Yo La Tengo and maybe some Jeff Koons art at Nuit Blanche. Actually, knowing that there will be so many friends around this weekend - and that there was a bunch around last weekend, too - is already doing a lot to improve my outlook.

The Ones We Know; The Ones We Never Meet

2009-08-23T08:21:00.000-07:00

Warning: Although most of my postings are pretty light-hearted and suitable for all readers, this one contains some content that you won't want to read if you're squeamish or just not into knowing the most personal or intimate details of my life.

As you may have noticed, I haven't written much here over the past few months. Part of that is because I currently have a full-time job. It's just a contract, so it won't last forever (especially since it's a one-off project), but it's really good, interesting and will hopefully lead to other things. I then got some freelance work, which took up my evenings and weekends; again, interesting and engaging work. It felt good to be productive.

But the past month or so has been less about feeling good and more about feeling completely adrift.

First of all, things with B's dad have been on our minds since January, when he got sick. The cancer diagnosis, the chemo, the decision to stop chemo and give him home hospice care: each step has been difficult and our distance from the rest of B's family made it harder still. Although we visited, we weren't there. B's Brothers and sisters could go over on weekends and in the evenings, some of them could stay for a few days at a time. For us, well, I can't speak for B, but for me, it was hard to know that regardless of phone calls and email, we couldn't help. We couldn't offer his mom any real, physical support; we couldn't attempt to comfort his dad when things went from bad to worse.

We were able to visit for a week in June. His dad was still alert, eating and sometimes talkative. One night, we got him talking about his experiences in Viet Nam, the army in general, and a little about life on the farm he grew up on. Hearing him talk about being in the war as an explosives expert was interesting. I'd heard some of the stories - the one about the giant snake, the one about cooking Jiffy Pop using a little bit of explosives - before, but this time the stories seemed to have more detail. I'd never really heard him talk of his army friend, the way they stuck together. He said they saved each others' lives, but never spoke again after they got out of the army.

B's dad was an interesting man. He was sort of austere and didn't say much, unless he was talking about traveling or something mechanical. Even on his birthday, when B would call to wish him a happy birthday, his dad would quickly hand the phone of to B's mom with a , 'Oh thanks, I'll get mom.' He never smoked or drank. He was a star basketball player in high school. He worked at IBM for decades. He drove Subarus exclusively. I've never known anyone to have more faith in an automobile than he had in that car; that he was driving one when he hit a buck on the highway, rolled over and emerged unscathed, proved his faith was correct. He enjoyed a nice bowl of ice cream. He believed in his country and even though I didn't always agree with his politics, I could see the value in his opinion because I knew he just wanted what he thought was best for his family. There is more of him in B than I think he ever realized.

Something that I can't get out of my head: A month or so before he passed away, B's brother was having some car problems. His dad, who was on a ton of medication and was starting to have a lot of pain, drew a diagram of the engine from memory and told him what he thought the problem was. He turned out to be right.

And now for part two of my story.

About a month ago, I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking I was having menstrual cramps. I got up, took an Advil and drank some water. By the time I'd walked from the kitchen to the bathroom (about 12 steps) I was crouched over in pain. Over the next 15 minutes, I'd barfed all over the living room and could barely stand up. B called a cab that didn't arrive, so we went outside and hailed one to take us to the hospital.

To make a long story short, the following day they called to tell me I was pregnant. An ultrasound the following day said that it was a miscarriage. The whole thing was a shock. When the doctor asked me if pregnancy was a possibility, I said no. We use condoms. There have been times when we've engaged in riskier behaviour, but lately, we've been using them. Being told I was pregnant threw so many conflicting thoughts into my head. I don't want to have children, but thinking there was one inside me, even though that was only a possibility for a few hours, I was pretty certain I would have had it.

After the initial hospital-based testing - essentially two days in the emergency room - I saw my own doctor and nurse (I have the best medical care in the world, I swear) for blood tests and talking. It was so much better being with people I know, people who aren't rushed and sarcastic and forgetful. They were monitoring my hormone level because it was slow to decrease. There was some concern that I was having an ectopic pregnancy.

The bleeding lasted for over three weeks. Sometimes I thought it was ending, then it would kick in again. I always thought a miscarriage was something that happened and was over. I know better now. Every day I was reminded that there had been life inside of me that decided to leave. A week after the big incident, B and I were hanging out in the park. He asked me if I'd spilled something on my shirt. Turns out my breast was leaking. It only happened that day, but it saddened me beyond anything that's ever happened before. It was surprising (even my nurse was surprised to hear that happened) and disorienting. I've always felt like I knew my body pretty well. That made me realize I know nothing.

My hormones still feel messed up. My mood has been swinging pretty harshly and I haven't been helping it by eating a bunch of junk food. We've been so distracted by all the life events that we've hardly cooked for ourselves in a month. Since getting back from B's mom's, we've been getting back to regular life and I'm sure things will return to normal - is there such a thing? - soon enough.

While I'm known for dwelling, I'm trying really hard not to dwell on this. I'm writing this to help get it out of my system. It seems to be working.

Shirts vs. Skins

2009-07-25T09:28:00.001-07:00

I went to see Rick Springfield at Casino Rama a couple of weeks ago. I was really excited about it. I hadn't seen him since I was 12 or 13, when he played the C.N.E. and my mum took me, two years running. He was, if memory serves, the last show I saw like that: the last of the teen idols.

Brad came with me to the Rama show. He grew up with his sisters listening to Rick and kind of likes the power pop element to his songs. He can sing along with "Kristina"; it makes me happy. Sometimes we play Success Hasn't Spoiled Me Yet while we make dinner. Sure, we're both know a lot about music and have a ton we can choose from, but sometimes, Rick's power chords are enough.

Sadly, the joy I feel when dancing around the kitchen to "I've Done Everything For You" was only in moderate supply at the Rama show.

On the plus side, we had great seats. Centre stage, just a couple of rows up in the stands. I could see his face without looking at the screen. I heard some songs I love and, well, it was a fun, nostalgic rush. He covered Paul McCartney's "Jet", a song I've always loved.

However, the bad outweighed the good. Yes, he looks great for his age, but I wasn't there to see him shirtless or hear him talk about his 'weenie' (his word). It was frustrating that so much time was taken up with having audience members sing "Don't Talk to Strangers", but have many songs I really want to hear relegated to a crappy medley. Medleys are always crappy and just serve to remind people of good songs that they're not hearing. Also, I can't stand Eric Clapton, so to hear Rick (not exactly Clapton's guitar playing peer) do his version of "Crossroads" was excruciating. And I know that Rick wants to be more than a nostalgia act, so I didn't mind hearing some new songs, but that "What's Victoria's Secret" song is embarrassing and throwing a new, slow song into the encore is just poor showmanship.

So, it was a bittersweet night. I doubt I'll bother again.

Much more satisfying is the new split 7" by The Evaporators and Andrew W.K. , "A Wild Pear". Andrew takes one side, while The Evaporators take the other, covering songs by the fantastic Leather Uppers ("Don't Sell Hot Dogs Tonight"), The Subhumans ("Oh Canaduh") and French '60s band, Les Hou-Lops ("Oh Non"). There's a fun Evaporators original, too ("The Bombs in My Pants"). For my money, if Nardwuar the Human Serviette is involved, I'm on board. He's a great interviewer, a true believer in music and he puts on a great show. Andrew W.K. does an admirable job with his songs, too. Really, this is a fine bit of punk rock fun.

Whoa

2009-07-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

It's already July and I've been so busy that I've been neglecting this space, which is weird because I've had a lot to say lately. Unfortunately, today's not the day to say it.

But some things I've been thinking about include:

Dream jobs and the idea of getting a graduate degree.

Health through nutrition.

Dinosaur Jr.

Why I always look like I'm in drag when I dress up.

The process of dying: the pros and cons of having time to say goodbye vs. checking out suddenly.

Rick Springfield and my teenage self.

Memory foam vs. coil spring mattresses.

The relief that comes from knowing I'm not a bad employee.

Shapes of Things

2009-06-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

Hi. I turned 39 on Monday. Jack Benny's age. It was a weird one. For starters, unlike most other years, I didn't gather my friends together to help me ring in a new year. Secondly, so much is going on in our lives, especially with B's dad being sick, that me marking another year just seemed inconsequential. We went out for a nice supper and B made my favourite chocolate chip cookies, so it was still a good day, but not exactly a joyous occasion.

Last night I watched Waitress, the movie Adrienne Shelly wrote and directed (and co-starred in). It was funny and touching and empowering, not to mention hunger-pang inducing... mmm... pie. Knowing that the person responsible for such a beautiful little film was slaughtered filled me with so much sadness last night. Today, too. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by the spectre of death these days. I know I should meditate and live in the moment, but man, sometimes it's hard.

One Small Step for Joannekind

2009-05-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

I'm starting a contract position on Thursday. I'll actually have to leave the house every day for a few weeks. Not that I've been staying home much. Still, the thought of people expecting me to be at a certain place at a set time is a bit strange. I've spent the past few months doing pretty much as I please; as long as I got the freelance work done, I was fine. I'm looking forward to this job, though. A lot. It's a good feeling to be anticipating a job. I really want to exceed expectations. I want to do the best I can. If there's any job where that should be possible, it's this one.

I'm hungry and full of weird energy. I just came back from seeing Krallice at Sonic Boom. B's out at the show. Wolves in the Throne Room is playing too, and Thrones. That's a lot of throne. I like WITR's politics and their vibe, but I'm not in love with the music. I can only take so much bowel-wrenching sound before I cave. Still, Krallice were fun: equal parts art and metal. Plus, the singer looked like he should've been fronting an indie-folk band, but then had a voice like an earthquake.

The song "The Origin of Love" just ended. Christ, it makes me weep. It did before, but even moreso now. I still miss Jamie. I think about him all the time.

I Heart The Vaselines

2009-05-17T11:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel really old. Like at The Thermals a few weeks ago. The audience seemed to be comprised of 20% my friends and acquaintances, 80% kids having their first beers, and in the case of one specific dingus, a round of Liquid Cocaine. Awesome. Misplaced moshing, dumbass antics; I'm so not interested. So, even though the band was great and it was mostly a good time, I spent a significant chunk of the show being irritated.

I don't go to half - or even a quarter - as many shows as I used to for just that reason: I don't want to be irritated at an event that should be fun. I generally chalk it up to getting older and decreasing patience, but The Vaselines show on Friday night proved that it's not true.

Lee's wasn't packed the other night (which could be explained by the relatively steep ticket price), but there was a respectable crowd. People were excited. There was a singalong element (the likes of which I haven't heard since the first time I saw Billy Bragg at the Concert Hall), which sort of bugs me, but was also understandable because their songs are fun to sing and, honestly, who ever thought that we would ever get to see them?

But there they were: Frances McKee and Eugene Kelly. After almost 20 years of non-existence, they've reunited for some shows in support of their new Sub Pop collection. They walked on stage and started singing "Son of a Gun." Hearts melted. I swear I smiled from that moment until the next morning. The crowd was ebullient and respectful. Frances was sassy; Eugene's belt was adjusted so as not to scratch his guitar. There were some dipshits calling requests -- really, did you think they wouldn't sing "Molly's Lips"? But that's a minor complaint.

Adding to my personal excitement of seeing Frances and Eugene in person (I never even saw Eugenius for some dumb reason) was having Stevie Jackson play guitar. When I glimpsed him standing behind Brad during the opening act, I got giddy in a way I rarely get. My cheeks flushed. For real. Yes, I'm a grown woman who has met a lot of musicians throughout my life, but Stevie is one of my favourite guitar players (that snapping wrist action = yum!) and he's a glasses-wearing, curly brown haired Scottish musician. What's better, really?

It felt good to know that I'm not entirely a crankypants and that fun can still be had around strangers. Thanks, Vaselines!

Mother's Day

2009-05-08T08:29:00.000-07:00

I'd like to wish a Happy Mother's Day to all the moms and mums I know, including mine. I wish she knew this. I wish it mattered.

I'm trying so hard to be upbeat these days and I know that the sporadic-at-best communication between me and my mum is the result of actions that I needed to take. That doesn't make it any easier. There's a lot of love in my heart; I'd like to share it.

I Want To Take Him Home WIth Me

2009-05-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's been a while since I wrote anything here. Actually, I started to the other day, but then scrapped it when I realized just how formal I sounded. That's not my intention here. No formality! Well, some maybe.

I've been thinking about a lot of things lately. I saw John Doe and The Sadies play at Sonic Boom the other day, then listened to Los Angeles three times in a row, including the bonus tracks from the remaster. "Cyrano De Berger's Back" is my favourite song at the moment. I sort of regret not going to the actual show, but I've been fighting off a cold and I need it to be gone before I go to The Thermals tonight. Hardly art, hardly starving, indeed.

I've also been thinking about the '90s a lot. No surprise, maybe. But specifically I've been thinking about Pansy Division and the queerification of popular culture a decade ago. I just finished reading PD singer Jon Ginoli's autobiography/band history, Deflowered (which is a great little book even if you're not a fan, by the way), and it sparked a lot of memories. When Linda and I did our radio show, I was prompted to play their songs (mostly "Fem in a Black Leather Jacket") by the cute naked guy on the cover of PD's first album, Undressed. After the initial lure, though, I became a fan of the direct, funny way Ginoli and the band addressed gay sex and love.

When I met Brad and found out that he and his friends - a bunch of straight boys from the suburbs - were also Pansy Division fans, it endeared me to him. These days, it seems like more celebrities are out of the closet and, you know, Ellen's on TV every day, but portrayals of gay men are still usually undersexualized in that Will & Grace way. It's like we're so busy trying to prove that gay is just as boring as straight to make it more palatable to conservatives. It seems the '90s - with Kurt Cobain on the cover of The Advocate and Green Day taking Pansy Division on tour with them and going out of their way to defend their friends when confronted by rednecks - were more queer, even with less representation in the mainstream media.

I have more to say about this and about Ginoli's book in general. But right now I need to blow my nose.

Rising to the Occasion

2009-04-16T06:35:00.000-07:00

The first time my mum ever bought me a pair of heels, I was in Grade 5 and we were on vacation in England. Now, by heels, I mean about a 1/2 inch of chunky wooden heel. The shoes were pretty excellent, actually. Plum coloured leather with a round toe and little petal shapes cut into the leather. They were comfortable and I loved them, though it wasn't long before I outgrew them. Still, I kept them in my closet for a long time hoping one day they would fit again.

My mum, who defines the word petite, wore heels - real heels - most of my young life. When she was a teenager, it was de rigeur in her circle to wear the highest heels available. While she didn't always follow this, she was rarely seen without at least an inch or two boosting her small frame.

I didn't inherit that gene.

Growing up in the '70s and '80s, I was more Earth Shoes than stilettos, then I preferred granny boots and pointy-toed boots. In the '90s, I shook hands with Doc Martin. The 2000s found John Fluevog making me feel like Cinderella. Not the cute yet sturdy heels, but the bowling shoe styles and the brogues. I like the way a nice, chunky shoe balances out my breasts and hips. I don't think that I will ever decline a chunky sole. There have been a few pairs of low heels in my wardrobe, but my comfort-over-style pragmatism overrules for day-to-day living.

However, I recently decided that, now that 40 is approaching, it's time to try wearing heels, to look more womanly than cutesy. Just sometimes, once in a while.

Most of the girlier shoes in my collection are vintage and fairly modestly stacked. However, I recently went all out and purchased a new pair of '40s-inspired 3" heels. Now, I know all the heel veterans strut around on 4", 5" and sometimes even higher, but for me, I feel like I'm a model in a fetish magazine when I secure the dainty buckle around my ankle. They look great, by the way... until I stand up.

Actually, I can stand in them. I can pose in sassy poses in them. Heck, I can even walk in them, but very tentatively, sort of like a toddler or someone getting their sea legs. Last time I wore them for any length of time, a simple subway ride to a restaurant turned into a lengthy, but far less awkward, cab ride home. I've walked down Richmond St. on a Saturday night (ugh, I'm shuddering just thinking of it) and seen the ladies in platform stilettos waiting to get into the clubs. Do they actually dance or do they just stand around looking tall and sexy? Actually, I know the answer to that, what I want to know is how?

How can I become a confident, strutting lady in a pair of sexy secretary heels? What magic does it take?

Thrift Score

2009-04-09T15:34:00.001-07:00

Remember that zine, Thrift Score? Well, it's still a term I use whenever I stroll down the the Salvation Army or make the hike to the Goodwill or VV and find something truly great (at least to me) for less than $20. Why $20? Well, because I don't think that anything - stereo, organ (the musical instrument, not a body part), lamp, designer dress, board game - is worth more than that if it's in a store where things are ostensibly not being sold for profit.

True thrift scores - like finding a Moog or a pristine copy of Elvis Costello Live at the ElMocambo in the charity shop -are becoming increasingly rare as everyone decides their good are eBay-able. However, occasionally, it's still possible to find a good treat.

Today was one of those days.

I go to the SalArm every couple of days. Usually, I sift through the same pleated pants and muted floral print dresses. Once in a while, new treasures arrive. So, today, I picked up a super cute Jones of NY jean jacket (a petite large - oh the oxymoronic nature of that phrase), a beautiful little saucer I'm probably going to give away to one of my less clumsy friends, and a bright orange psychedelic psundress - actually a day dress with pockets and front zipper - with huge green and white and blue and yellow flowers that looks like it's never been worn.

Now, of late, my style has become much more age appropriate than ever before. But really, what good has that done me? It's not like I'm having people approach me on the street and offer me jobs because I look mature. So, eff it, I'm going for broke this summer.

If you see me (and in this dress, you really won't be able to miss me), please say hello.

Rethinking Janis Joplin

2009-04-08T07:40:00.000-07:00

Hey there,
First off, there's a new follower on this blog who doesn't have a name or image. I'm wondering who it is because it seems kind of spammy. Please say hello if you're a real person, otherwise, I'm going to delete you. Thanks.

Now, on to what I've been thinking about in the time I haven't been thinking about jobs and Adventureland over the past couple of days. Namely, Janis Joplin.

I've never been a Janis Joplin fan. I tried, especially during my all '60s all the time phase during high school. I was once given her greatest hits and always kind of liked "Mercedes Benz", mostly because it reminds me of Cheryl. I will also admit to being pretty enamoured of Going Down With Janis and still find it surprising that my high school library stocked it. However, for the most part I've always shied away from her overdone blues vocals. I've never doubted her sincerity, but I've simply never dug her voice.

I'm not saying that all that's changed, but I've recently come to rethink my take on Ms. Joplin after watching her on the Dick Cavett show. We'd left watching the all-Joplin DVD from the DC music box set until the end. We'd been enjoying watching the entire show, not just the musical performances. Dick's interview style is charming; sorta like watching Bob Newhart play a talk show host. I like how Dick is self-deprecating and seems genuinely interested in what his guests had to say. Compared to today's talk shows where every conversation seems rehearsed, it was refreshing. It's also cool that not every guest was on TV to shill something.

Anyway, there are three Cavett appearances for Joplin. The first is from the summer of '69 (Bryan Adams reference unintentional), the second is from, I think June 1970 and the last is from Augusat '70, just two months before she died. She performed on all of them, but, unlike today when singers rarely get to do more than shake the host's hand when they're tagged onto the end of the show, she was the first guest and was engaged in lengthy conversation with Cavett. As well, all the guests used to hang out for the show's duration, often engaging in subsequent interviews. It's a far more engaging process.

Cavett's introduction to the third appearance was particularly moving even in its brevity. He speaks of hearing of Joplin's death on the radio and knowing what the announcer was going to say even before it was said aloud. Then he said, as succinctly as possible, "She should've been alive."

Going on to watch the episode, it's easy to see how he knew it was Janis's death that was being broadcast. On the show two months earlier, she was feisty and chatty, cracking jokes and challenging other guests. She seemed vulnerable and joked about her 'coffee', which she drank from a styrofoam container, but she was as sharp as she'd been the year before. While she was still engaging on her final appearance, there was a slowness, a dullness that hadn't been there before. She seemed charmed by Gloria Swanson (who reminded me at just how badly I crave The Carol Burnett Show on DVD), sniggered at a barefoot, prairie-dressed Margot Kidder and flirted with the burly ex-football player-turned-Berkeley scholar, but she seemed fuzzier around the edges than when she sparred with news guy Chet Huntley on the previous episode. The change was heartbreaking.

As well as talking, Janis sang two songs per episode, including a cover of The Bee Gee's "To Love Somebody". Now, while I'm still not a convert to her b-b-b-b-b-blues stylings, it was moving to see this woman, whose interviews revealed her vulnerability, get up and, as she put it, get under the music. Surrounded by the dudes in her various bands, she's totally in control of the sound and the situation.

One of my favourite parts of the second interview is when Raquel Welch is talking about wearing a t-shirt 'that everyone is wearing' with a cartoon on it that says "Keep On Trucking", and Janis practically leaps out of her chair to say, "That's R. Crumb, man!" Ms. Welch pretty much ignored her, but Janis kept repeating it, trying to get the artist's name out, trying to show how the counter-culture was becoming fashionable, and also give props to the friend who produced the artwork to her album Cheap Thrills. That Welch was so dismissive of Janis's enthusiasm speaks volumes to the apathetic world that values celebrity at the expense of those who live and die for their art.

A Bunch of Things

2009-04-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

Just some random stuff and opinion requests today.

First, please read my work on suite101.com. Here's the link to my profile and stories will be listed there as they're published.

http://www.suite101.com/profile.cfm/theoldworld

Thanks!

Second, I'm trying to come up with a delicious veggie Easter dinner idea. I usually make vegetable pot pie, but I'd like to come up with something new, in the tradition of an English roast dinner. Any ideas would be welcome.

Third, I need to buy a heart rate monitor watch. If you have one that you love, please let me know the make/model. The sales staff all say Polar, but my doctor says that Timex is just as good, especially if I'm not training for a marathon, which I'm not.

I've been listening to a bunch of indie pop lately and remembered how much I love The Push Kings. I know they're not to everyone's taste, but I love that Wham-meets-Beck sound.

Goodbye, Old CHUM

2009-03-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, 1050 CHUM was shut down and replaced with the audio component of news TV station, CP24. A recent media buy-out has resulted in a lot of things ending, with very few obvious benefits to listeners and viewers, so it probably shouldn't have been a surprise. But it was.

When I was a kid, CHUM was a Top 40 station with a history; it was one of Toronto's first rock 'n' roll stations, though it's birth was October 28, 1945. It wasn't just a survivor, it thrived, playing songs that were obvious hits, but also introducing kids like me to songs they would never hear with today's restricted playlists.

The CHUM Chart was something I looked forward to every week. In the early '80s, it was published in the Toronto Star and, when my parents would go to the Upper Canada Mall, I was usually allowed to buy one 45 from the chart at A&A. I would study it on the drive to the mall, then stand in front of the wall posting and stare some more, hemming and hawing over the possibilities.

Some songs I bought as a direct result include The Waitresses' "I Know What Boys Like", Split Enz' "Six Months In A Leaky Boat", Josie Cotton's "Johnny, Are You Queer" and Modern English's "Melt With You", along with more obvious choices by Asia, Foreigner and Billy Idol. There were more oddball favourites that usually charted around the summer. One that sticks in my head frequently - and that also has distinct CNE memories - was an extremely creepy number called, "Happy Birthday, Kid". I can never remember who sings it and I only know one person who owns a copy. It's haunting.

The CHUM t-shirt was a coveted item, and I think somewhere I still have my CHUM card, which you could use to win prizes.

Sometime in the late '80s or early '90s, when Top 40 stations seemed to be fazed out, especially on AM radio, CHUM became an oldies station, playing the music that made them popular in the '50s and '60s (though with nowhere near the breadth of songs they would've had access to back then. Suddenly most artists had a two or three hit limit). It wasn't groundbreaking or even illuminating, but it was still a fun listen, most of the time. Robbie Lane's show actually played songs that were off the beaten path. When my husband first moved to Canada, he'd never heard most of the CanCon I took for granted. Listening with him reminded me of how many great songs we've produced here.

But now, it's gone, replaced by something that isn't even real radio. I know money's tight, but, really, the bottom line for these companies is all that matters. Do the people who work on the TV station now earn twice the pay for being broadcast in two places? I highly doubt it. It's unlistenable, especially when they make remarks about things they're showing on the screen that radio listeners can't see. Besides, I can get a radio or traffic report anywhere. But now, where do I turn when I want to wake up to "Will You Ever Love Me Again"?

Happy Go Lucky

2009-03-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's spring and, though my mood has been more contemplative and fall-like, I'm trying really hard to look at things from a fresh perspective. It's amazing to see the sun shining, I feel happy when I see the geese returning from warmer places, and I'm truly thankful for all the friends I have. Although there have been so many causes of stress lately, there's a lot of good in my little corner of the world.

On Friday night, after Brad came home from a week in Illinois, we watched Mike Leigh's Happy Go Lucky. A fan of Leigh's since Life Is Sweet - Naked is one of my all-time favourites - I was glad to hear that this wasn't of the Vera Drake school of misery. Instead, it was exactly what I love in movies, books, television shows: a lot of things happen, but it doesn't follow the typical dramatic arc. The biggest conflict arises in the denouement and perhaps suggests something more to come in whatever follows the film's end, but could be just that: a momentary scary event that shakes up the protagonist, but doesn't result in some grand gesture. Although Poppy is cheerier than most people, the way Leigh presents her as a woman living her life, is a lot like reality: she talks to people, goes to work, gets drunk, has awkward reunions with her family, meets a guy she likes, wants to see the best in her potentially psychotic driving instructor. It may be one of the best movies I've seen this year, along with Let The Right One In.

Somehow, this reminds me that I'm really happy that I've recently been reunited with some people I love dearly, but, for one reason or another, hadn't seen in a while. Sometimes I'm a chump. Sometimes I run away from things instead of facing them. Sometimes, it can still be ok.

There's A Light

2009-03-13T08:26:00.000-07:00

This is what I said at Jamie's memorial service. I'm posting it so that anyone who's interested, especially those who weren't there, can see it. I feel like, as much as I was speaking for myself, when I talk about the high school stuff, I was speaking for a very close-knit group of friends. The memorial was really beautiful. All of the speakers brought different perspectives, but we all pretty much said the same thing: Jamie was fucking awesome. Anyway, this is what I wrote:

I met Jamie when I was in Grade 11 and he was in Grade 10. The earth didn’t move and no trumpets blared, but it was a pretty monumental event nonetheless. In my head, I picture it like the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy’s perfectly functional black-and-white world all of a sudden gets blasted with technicolour… not to mention witches, flying monkeys and a pair of dazzling ruby slippers.

I’ve told a lot of stories about Jamie these past few weeks. It seems like my vault of memories is unending. Over the years, I knew him in many capacities. He was my prom date -- and for clarity's sake, the following year, he took MaryBeth. We aren't the same person and we weren't his date at the same time -- and my best man. He was my adversary and he knew my secrets. He was my co-worker and, for one shift in the mid-‘90s, he was my boss. Knowing Jamie made me smarter, funnier and braver than I ever would have been if we’d never met.

Jamie was the person who convinced a bunch of my friends to take off their clothes on the stage of Rancho Relaxo as part of my pre-wedding party. He called it Stripaoke and it was hot and hilarious. Not one to ask others to do what he wouldn’t do himself, Jamie started the proceedings by revealing it all – well, almost – to the Funkadelic song, “Jimmy’s Got a Little Bit of Bitch in Him.” If you haven’t heard it, I suggest you give it a listen. It’s a little risqué, but it’s a pretty great way to remember Jamie: taking it off and shaking it for all he was worth to a song about gender identity, specifically about a man getting in touch with his feminine side.

I guess that’s why I’m standing here now. Throughout our friendship, Jamie was always willing to do what was needed to make sure people had the most fun imaginable. He stood up for them, literally and figuratively. He got them dancing. As another friend recently put it, he had presence. He saw opportunities and seized them. He ran a company and he bought shoes.
Forget Oprah, Jamie was the biggest advocate of living your best life possible.

Over the years he gave me a lot of advice – good and bad. I’d like to share a few of my favorite words of wisdom:
1) He’s a dick; you don’t need that.
2) If you’re going to wear underwear, it might as well be sexy.
3) The Misfits are a really good band.
4) I love making dinner at home! It’s practically free! , and, most recently, after we got together following a few years of not seeing much of each other, he told me
5) It’s OK; we’re together now.

And we were together; as close as we’d ever been. As we gave abbreviated versions of everything we’d done, thought and said since we’d last seen each other, we collapsed into frequent fits of giggles. I laughed so hard that soup came out my nose, which just made Jamie laugh until tears rolled down his cheeks. The waiter gave us disdainful looks. Good thing we were the only people in the place for most of the night. There were moments of silence, too, when we would look at each other and know we were OK.

While we didn’t indulge in reminiscing, we did discuss the possibility of going to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show together for old time’s sake. I think it’s safe to say that most people who knew Jamie knew that he had a special fondness for doing the Time Warp. I learned recently that our friend MaryBeth took him to see it for the first time, but, as she said, “Jamie took it to another level.”

It didn’t take long from that first trip to see Rocky for the Friday night trek from the wilds of Mississauga – Meadowvale to be precise – to the Roxy Theatre at Greenwood and Danforth became something of a ritual for our group of friends. We dressed up, we sang songs - including, for reasons lost to time, the time when we all stood up and sang O Canada at the top of our lungs. I guess we were feeling patriotic - we took pictures, we had elbow sex, all while taking the hour-and-a-half ride on Mississauga Transit and the TTC. I’m sure we annoyed the other passengers, but we didn’t mean to. We were just trying to make an otherwise boring trip as exciting as possible. We always succeeded.

For me to paint an accurate picture of our group of friends would take a lot longer than I have here. Suffice to say, we were generally good kids who felt right at home with the freaks and weirdoes that populated the Rocky Horror audience, and Jamie was at the centre of it all. Not one to pass up the chance to wear some sexy underwear, he’d dress up like Frank N. Furter at any given chance – and judging by the picture in our high school yearbook, he looked great in stockings.

Coming up with a conclusion to this has been proving elusive; I've never been good at goodbyes. Lyrics from a song by Jamie's old punk band, Y.O.A., keep popping into my head. It goes: "This is a Happy Song; This is not a sad song." Nice and simple, catchy, too.

So, even though I feel like I've been suckerpunched by the uneverse, I figure that song is stuck in my head to remind me of the good things; of all the happiness Jamie brought to me and to everyone he knew. His parents, Denise and Jim, raised a remarkable person, who we can all be proud to call our friend. And if there's anything we've learned by this cruel reminder that time really is fleeting, it's that we need to grab every chance to do and be all that we can. In the immortal words of an old friend, "Don't Dream It, Be It."

Hope

2009-03-05T07:07:00.000-08:00

These days, I need hope more than ever. It's been a pretty freaking painful time, and we're going through yet another struggle with a family member's health. I'm trying my hardest to remain positive and to smile and laugh as much as possible. I'm also trying to keep in mind that some things are out of my hands. The celebration of Jamie's life is next week; it's not going to be easy, but it will be a good chance to share memories and bask in the glow of all the good he brought to his friends and family. It would be better if we were just having a big birthday party or something. It would be better if he were actually in attendance, telling jokes and wearing nice shoes. I need to remember that life passes, but our time here is important. The effect we have is true and pure and lasting.

Obviously, another source of concern is the economy. However, I was inspired by what Richard Florida was talking about on The Hour last night. I should read his books, I think. Maybe it IS time for the old ways to die. Maybe the world can be a better, more creative and thoughtful place. Wouldn't that be something?

Falling In Love All Over Again

2009-02-26T09:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Alan became a permanent resident of Canada. Hooray! Brad and I accompanied Linda, Alan and Keats to Niagara Falls, where Alan went to do his paper work to become official. Truth be told, I will never turn down an opportunity to go to the Falls: it may be one of my favourite places on earth, even with the great old touristy stuff like wax museums and family restaurants being razed in favour of cruddy midwestern chain restaurants, casinos and, well, more crappy midwestern chain restaurants.

The Falls is part of my ongoing personal history. My parents took every visiting English family member there. I've gone with friends, on a whim and as a planned event. One of my favourite road trips ever revolved around going to the U.S. side in the middle of the night on a mission for 'booze, smokes and fireworks'. The mission was mostly a failure, but it was still super fun until Steve started falling asleep at the wheel. Then it was just scary. Brad and I saw David Cassidy there. Yesterday, Brad played $5 on the Evil Knieval 2 cent slot and won $31.84.

I still get filled with wonder when I look at all that water. Winter brings the added delight of giant icicles and snow covered rocks. In spite of all the connected commerce, the Falls themselves still feel magical.

It's been tough getting up in the morning lately, but yesterday felt good. I laughed a lot. So much, in fact, that I made it through the day without weeping. Can't say the same for today, but it's a start, at least.

Familiar

2009-02-23T06:50:00.000-08:00

I've cried a great deal over the past few days. Brad's been great, as usual, making cupcakes (and, thankfully, taking the lion's share to work, so I wouldn't be tempted to eat them all), setting aside his own pain to take care of mine - his grandpa died the night before we heard that Jamie was gone - and chuckling in that loving way when I cried over really dumb stuff during the Oscars last night. It's hard for him to come up with random banter when I suddenly turn to him and ask him to distract me so that I won't cry in the supermarket or while on the subway, but he tries. And, he usually comes up with something in time to stop my sobbing at inappropriate times.

Yesterday, I had lunch with Steve, which was really fun, in spite of our mutual sorrow. He's so busy and I rarely see him, but it's one of those things where, when we do get together, it's so easy and comfortable. We ended up at Sneaky Dee's eating food that tastes the way the room smells. Our server was funny and charming; she let us sit there for hours and offered us refills to fuel us.

We finally parted when I went up to see the Ben Kweller in-store at Sonic Boom. Short and sweet, he played three songs on acoustic guitar and charmed the pants off everyone in the room. It was just what I needed.

Today, I fear too much time alone with my crazy thoughts. I have some work to do and some cleaning, too. Small distractions, but at least they're something.

Jamie

2009-02-21T11:32:00.000-08:00

My intention with this blog was to talk about things that are important to me. I sometimes have a tendency to dwell on the negative. I'm a worrier. I act cautiously irrational, if that can exist. I'm trying not to do that anymore; trying to think rationally and keep the positive and the present firmly in focus.

My last post was written in a state of bliss. To say that my mood has changed would be the grossest of understatements. Perhaps it's too soon to write this, but I need to organize the myriad thoughts that have been swamping my brain over the past week. I can say with semi-certainty that this won't be my final word on the matter, but something needs to be the first.

James John Joseph Julien, whom I call Jamie, passed away after a sudden and unexpected - as if these things are ever really expected - stroke. He was a little over a week away from his 39th birthday and I have on many occasions described him as the happiest person I know.

We met in high school. I was in Grade 11 and he was in Grade 10. The exact circumstances are a bit blurry, but I think I was introduced one day by our friend Jennifer and a day or two later by our pal Anthony. Our friends were a motley crew of band geeks, literary wannabes and other arty types. We weren't the 'cool' kids, but, really, we defined the word. We were good kids who tended to favour sex and rock 'n' roll over drugs. At that time, very few of us even bothered to drink. As adults, both Jamie and I learned the deliciousness of the Gibson martini. He recently confided that he kept a jar of pickled onions at his bedside, and was also known to take a jar out with him if he knew the bar he was going to didn't stock them. That sort of attention to life-improving details turned his world - and by extension the world of those who loved him - from black and white to technicolour. Why settle for an olive when you can bring your own onions?

We went to concerts and we danced our butts off (some things really do never change) at house parties. We watched movies and talked for hours. I learned that I knew if something I said was truly funny when Jamie would toss his head back and crinkle his eyes and laugh and hold his stomach.

We went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Roxy a lot. In fact, that will be a post to itself. Jamie and I discussed going to the Halloween showing this past year, but didn't. I'm trying hard not to regret things, but I regret this.

He was my prom date and my best man. He was MaryBeth's prom date the following year. At my 'bachelor' party, he hosted Stripaoke, and convinced a variety of my friends to get near-naked (some were more bashful than others) for my amusement. He was great at convincing people to do things, I guess that's why he was such a powerhouse when it came to fundraising? Who wouldn't want to do what he asked? He was charming and funny and when he looked you in the eye, you knew he was seeing you and you alone.

I think this is all I can write for now. Like I said, this is a public attempt at making sense of private pain. An attempt at keeping alive a person who shouldn't be gone. I'm angry, so, so, angry that I won't see him riding his trike down College Street ever again. And yes, I'm trying to celebrate the life that he brought into the world, but I'm pissed off that he's gone and I'm tired of crying.

Hey! You're My Guiding Star

2009-02-12T17:41:00.001-08:00

I've told this story many times; I'm telling it again.

The first time I saw Brad, he had just come through customs with his acoustic guitar, his brown cords and his butt-length ponytail. My heart fused with my guts right then and there, but we were just friends, so I played it... well, cool isn't the word, but I didn't run over and tell him I love him or anything. That came later.

Our friend Patti takes credit for getting Brad and I together, and that's not incorrect, though it goes back even further. Back to Maximumrocknroll and Book Your Own Fuckin' Life, and Stephe listing a bunch of bands in BYOFL, including Patti's old band, Meowch. Back to Brad and Chad coming to Canada on a search for girls who were a little bit Caitlin Degrassi and a whole lotta Cub. Back to Teenage Fanclub and a belief in the DIY spirit of zines and mixed tapes and putting out 7" singles on your own label.

But Brad did see the listing for Meowch in BYOFL and then sent Patti a copy of his first single. One of the songs was a scrappy little ode to TFC, a band I've loved for a long, long time, and Patti figuredI'd like it. She was right. I also liked the photo booth portraits on the back, though I wasn't sure which one was Brad. In fact, I liked it so much, I decided to write and order a copy for myself.

Now, let's stop for a minute and set things up a bit more. I only knew a few people at that time who had email accounts. I had one, but I had to use my roommate's computer. Patti, Seventeen and I shared a Post Office box with some other people, and that was the central hub of our communication. Great things came to that P.O. Box: zines, records and CDs, tapes, issues of Bust, photographs, art...

And one day, I got a package from Yorkville, Illinois that would change the course of my life. Brad and I exchanged letters, zines and tapes, he sent me his records and those of his friends, I sent him toys from Treasure Island for his birthday. We wrote a lot. His spelling was terrible, but it got better as we corresponded.

A few weeks after we started writing, I came home and Wilma told me that "Brad from America" called. We laughed about that; she thought he sounded cute. I was nursing a pretty big crush based on comics and songs and vegetarianism. When we finally talked on the phone, he was so nervous that he jumped onto a chair and smashed his light shade with his head.

It didn't take long for plans to be laid for him to come to Toronto. We were hoping to set up a show for his band, Oval-Teen, but that didn't work out. He came anyway and spent the best part of a week sleeping on the multi-coloured velour sectional in our living room. On his first night in town, we went to see Neck play at Club Shanghai and I bought him the first 50 he ever drank. A few days later, we sat on the lawn at Casa Loma and told each other little stories about our lives. On the last day, he decided it would be easier if we stopped kissing each other. I didn't think much of that great idea. If I think about it, I can still feel the pummelling sorrow I felt when he took the flight home. I don't think of it often.

The next visit was spent in Illinois, at his parents' place. They had a lot of different cereal, two great dogs and a big backyard. His little brother made a joke about me being 'just one of many Canadian girls' who came to visit Brad. Meeting Brad's best friend, Chad, was nerve-wracking; I think we hit it off ok.

A little over a year spent visiting each other led to the day when we sat on the couch in the apartment on Spadina and I said, "Do you think we should get married?" That was in September; the following February we got a bunch of friends and family together at the Legion on the Lakeshore (hey, we're nothing if not classy!), and said some vows that including some stuff about warlocks and wizards. Then we danced to Chico's record collection.

Chad gave us a seafoam green Danelectro and tucked a note inside:
"Brad & Joanne,
I had a lot of people sy that a guitar wasn't a good wedding gift; but all I could think of was your guys' "American Girl" - The world needs more good rock 'n' roll - Brad/Joanne style.
-- The couple that rockes together, stays together. --
On a serious note - Raymond Carver wrote about his years being 'gravy.' And that's what I wish for you kids.
-- May all your years be gravy. --

Tomorrow, Brad and I will be married for ten years.

The Bay Revisited

2009-02-05T08:21:00.001-08:00

So, I heard that The Hudson's Bay Company is laying off a ton of people. They really should take my advice. I could save them.

Reeling In The Years

2009-02-04T07:37:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about all the people I've interviewed over the years, so I've decided to make a list of the bands (there are film and theatre people, too). This is probably more for my own good (to help with my failing memory) than for anyone else's. Also, to remind me who I'd still like to speak with. So, here's the first stab at it, in no particular order.

Suede (first press conference I ever attended)
Robyn Hitchcock (perhaps my favourite interviewee of all time)
Joe Strummer (also a forerunner)
Chrissie Hynde (a dream come true)
The Donnas
The White Stripes
Sleater-Kinney
Andy Kim (like a history lesson of my formative musical years. fantastic.)
SuperFriendz
The Flashing Lights
Kimberley Rew
Olivia Tremor Control
Apples In Stereo
Billy Bragg (amazing)
Le Tigre (Kathleen Hannah is one of my favourites, for sure)
Elliot Smith
Mystery Machine
Yo La Tengo
Teenage Fanclub (Raymond twice; Norman twice. Every time perfect)
Jeff Buckley (dream lover)
Aimee Mann
Rob Zombie
Bend Sinister
Danielson
Bernard Butler
The Diableros
Hanson
Adam Green
The Deadly Snakes (insightful, inspirational. i miss them.)
The Shining (this was around the time I knew I should get out of the game)
Renann
Stacey Earle
Robbie Williams
The Velvet Crush (in the top three, for sure)
Blur (should've left it at one)
Gene Simmons
Kings of Leon
Local Rabbits
Grapes of Wrath
Elastica
Superchunk
Lambchop
Maximo Park
Verve
The Hidden Cameras
Aaron Riches
The Buzzcocks (I was so excited, I thought I'd pee my pants. I didn't, which is for the best, really.)
Eleni Mandell
Pavement
New Pornographers

oof... ok, that's enough of that for now. there are more, but my brain hurts from thinking about it. perhaps i'll try again later...

Feb. 5
Saint Etienne

Feb. 15
Evan Dando
Elf Power

Revisiting the Refrijoles

2009-02-03T12:47:00.000-08:00

Hey there,
Here's the link to the veggie slow-cooked refried beans. I reduce the salt and add more (and varied) peppers, but that's all to taste. Mmmm... beans.

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Refried-Beans-Without-the-Refry/Detail.aspx

I'm looking for a good veggie slow-cooked baked beans recipe now. Not too molasses-y.

I Wanna Dance

2009-02-01T07:29:00.000-08:00

On Friday night, we went to Medieval Times with Brad's work. Although the food (try being a veggie at any tourist attraction) was sorta gross, it was incredibly fun; mostly because the people in our group are some of the funniest around.

After watching the Green Knight be defeated (booooo!), we went back to Jeff's place for drinking, dancing and general good times. I know I was being a bit obnoxious with the stereo, but I felt like dancing, mostly to hits, not album tracks: "Dance The Night Away," "How We Know", "Let's Go Crazy", "Love Undone", "More Than A Feeling." It's so rare these days that I have an opportunity to dance (I hate/feel too old to go to nightclubs) that I didn't want it to end.

Actually, that's not entirely true. As part of my goofy exercise regimen, I spend a lot of time doing the twist, the swim and the watusi. There's some pogo type action and some hustle moves thrown in there, too. And, during "I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone", just some random throwing myself around. I sort of hate exercising in the traditional sense. Mostly because I despised gym class (thank god for written tests) and think of it as a joyless activity. But dancing is one of my favourite things ever, so maybe it's the key to raising my level of physical fitness, even if I have to do it alone in my kitchen.

Time

2009-01-30T07:44:00.000-08:00

Not too much to say today. It's strange though, being alone after spending the past week and a half with Brad at home. Even though he was recuperating from his surgery for some of that time, he was still around. Now, I'm here alone with my thoughts. It's definitely time to figure out my next career move.

Why I Love The Bay, and How I Would Improve It

2009-01-29T08:53:00.000-08:00

I love The Bay and have been known to wax poetic about it to pretty much anyone who will listen. I love how, on days when I feel a little plain or even ugly, I can walk through the make-up and perfume departments, give myself a spritz, have a mini-makeover (this was best when Benefit a part of the shop) or, when I have some money in my pocket, buy a pretty MAC lipstick. I love the hosiery department located right inside the doors of my favourite location at Queen and Yonge; I especially love when they have the whole sales rack and not just a bin of pantyhose with torn packages. I love the KitchenAid displays and dream of the day when my kitchen will be all chrome and seafoam. I love the Christmas area that pops up every winter and fills me with glad tidings, even though I know it's just glitter. I love the frequent discounts offered, so that when I replace my husband's hole-ridden socks, I will probably get a bargain.

But with all this love comes the flipside.

For starters, I've read a number of pundits saying that in the current economy, when the rich will stick with Holt Renfrew and the rest of us will squirrel our money away, the mid-range luxury of The Bay will likely fail. The idea that the iconic striped Hudson's Bay Blanket may be yet another great thing Canada loses due to our unfailing ability to condemn the past to obsolescence breaks my heart. Yes, I know that the Hudson's Bay Company was founded on and continues to profit from the fur trade. And I know that we Europeans committed atrocities to the native land and people, which isn't something to be celebrated. But wouldn't it be great if The Bay used the past to inform the future? What if it fulfilled its potential?

The Bay is one of the few remaining stores that, in spite of its purchase and re-purchase by U.S. companies, still symbolizes Canada. It even has a little Canadiana section hidden in the back of the menswear department (that's where you find the blankets), not to mention the somewhat cheesy Olympic area upstairs near the tunnel to the Eaton Centre. It has a very Canadian coat-of-arms, too.

So why not make it a truly Canadian store? There's a restaurant upstairs that's pretty much wasted. The city is full of chefs - men and women who have taken the local and organic food movement to heart and make delicious, affordable meals - who could revitalize the venerable dining area on the store's upper floors (I'm speaking of the Queen venue), not to mention the basement take-out/sandwich shop area. Right now, there's a pretty non-descript deli area that could be bursting with cheese from this country's small farmers, not to mention meat that hasn't travelled across the world. Toronto alone has a number of independent chocolate makers that could give the bonbons that currently litter the shelves a run for their money. Why spend money on importing blandness when we have our own vibrant culinary life?

That philosophy could easily be spread throughout the store. Canadian designers could - and would - edge out the sweatshopped competition. At Christmas, I went for the Harvey Woods boxer briefs with their Made In Canada label, but it's not easy to find jeans, socks, bathrobes or shirts that are made here or even in North America. Clothing companies should be encouraged to return operations to North America. Factories could be retrofitted or rebuilt to reduce waste and pollution. Workers could be paid enough that they could afford to purchase the goods they make. The store's racks would be full of items we could take pride in.

From clothes and food to furnishings and housewares, The Bay could be the forerunner in a new Canadian shopping experience: a return to quality over quantity, a chance for the venerable standby to adapt and grow, but with a real and progressive vision. A chance for people to be filled with glad tidings and to know it's not just glitter.

Zine vs.Blog

2009-01-14T07:53:00.000-08:00

About ten years ago, I published a few issues of a comic/zine called Half-Hearted Platitudes. I considered naming this blog the same, thinking it could pick up where I left off ten years ago. But sitting here typing into a prefabricated template isn't the same as the freeform design that was my old zine. This isn't bad necessarily, but it is very different. I think the differences are what kept me from doing this sooner. With H-HP, I could work on something for days, then scrap it if I decided it was too personal or not personal enough; if I felt I was skirting around an issue or if I thought that I might hurt someone I cared about. But blogging is so immediate. If I wanted, I could send out anything without even going so far as to re-read it. Not that I would.

Also, in the zine days, I sold most copies through zine fairs and some through mail order. There was direct interaction with readers. It was gratifying. Many people who purchased H-HP were writers themselves, so there was a discourse. I met some fantastic people through zines. Here, apart from the people who send me email or sign up to follow ILTOW, I have no idea who reads these words. Like so many other things, it's immediate and impersonal.

My zine was scrappy. I'm not much of an artist, but I illustrated a lot of the stories I told in H-HP. I would like to do the same for ILTOW, but my knowledge of how to add hand-drawn work to the digital world is slim-to-none. Maybe I'll try to figure that out. That would be a good task, I think.

Hungry

2009-01-13T18:52:00.000-08:00

My blood sugar's been really good lately (I praise home cooking instead of eating out. Poverty comes with some rewards, it seems.) and I want to keep it that way. My weight's been pretty stable, too. However, I've been having waves of nausea overtake me this past week. Nausea like I've never had before. Don't know what that's about. Right now I'm hungry, but thoughts of almost any food fill me with palpable disgust. So, what thought doesn't make me want to vomit? Ice cream and spaghetti: two foods certain to jack up my glucose levels and put more weight on this body. What gives, universe?

Tina Fey

2009-01-12T08:00:00.001-08:00

I've been pretty unabashed about my love for Tina Fey, but last night, watching the Golden Globe Awards, I shed a tear when she gave her speech.

First off, I have a love/hate thing for award shows. Great movies/TV shows/music often go unnoticed, while movies/programs/songs that are manipulative and overtly sentimental or just plain moronic often reap big rewards. Of course, I'm painting with broad strokes here. Lots of talented people are recognized for their work and I'm a sucker for the pretty dresses and gushing speeches.

But last night, watching Tina Fey accept her award for best actress in a comedy - a comedy that is her creation and that also beat out another favourite, The Office - moved me. Yes, it was fantastic that Alec Baldwin won, too. And Tracey Morgan's speech when accepting the Best Comedy award was as smart and brash as I expect he is in real life. However, it was Tina's night.

She looked slightly squinty without her glasses (although I'm sure she was wearing contacts) even as she was all glammed up in what might have been the night's lowest cut dress. She told various anonymous internet commentators to 'suck it,' and really, they should. She didn't go for an obvious crowd-pleasing move like doing her Sarah Palin wink. She was beautiful and humble and deserving of all the acclaim she has received.

So why did it make me weep? Well, Tina Fey is the first woman-on-television I can remember who represents intelligent, sassy, nerdy, sexy-without-surgery, women who has actually been recognized for her work. We have Amy Poehler, Sarah Silverman, Jane Krakowski, Kristen Wiig, Amy Sedaris, the way undervalued (except by Tina Fay) Rachel Dratch. All of these women are brilliant and unafraid to go for the laugh, even if it means not always looking pretty or being within the confines of good taste. In interviews, they don't revert to cutesie just to make the interviewer feel better. Hopefully, each will get a turn to receive public recognition for their creative contributions.

Also significant was that Fey cleaned up on a night that Steven Spielberg was given a lifetime achievement award. They showed a brief clip of most of the many films he directed. He's made movies about sharks, dinosaurs, extra-terrestrials, slavery, the Holocaust, the Japanese invasion of Shanghai, more aliens, adventurers, soldiers, still more aliens. The Color Purple is the only Steven Spielberg film to have women in the lead roles. In fact, most of these films don't even have women in a role big enough to be considered 'supporting.' At best, they are moms and girlfriends. Laura Dern at least survived Jurassic Park. Spielberg spent a while recognizing the importance of mentorship in his acceptance speech; he talked about giving help and fostering young talent. But, judging by his body of work, when Mr. Spielberg talks about film, there's little space for the ladies.

Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio?

2009-01-10T07:42:00.000-08:00

Growing up in very small town Ontario, I spent a lot of time listening to the radio: CHUM and CFTR mostly. The kids in my class liked Led Zeppelin, John Cougar Mellencamp and AC/DC. Oh, and the Grease OST. Never a fan of the Coug, I liked those other choices fine, but I also equated them with my older cousin, the cousin who also loved Slade and Cheap Trick and who I loved with all my heart, but still, they weren't my bands. I liked thinking I was the first to hear something or at least the one who really got it.

Back then, The Heartbreakers sat on the side of the fence that would be considered New Wave; I think it was Benmont Tench's organ parts that made them too weird for the classic rock kids in my school. Or maybe it was Tom's skinny ties. Either way, Petty got lumped in with Split Enz and, later, Joan Jett... they had OK songs, but they were no KISS. Thus, they were my bands.

I longed for my dad to win me the Damn The Torpedoes mirror at the summer fair and snickered when the guy who was considered the coolest bragged about his Bob Seger records. My music snobbery was rampant, though pretty much based on what I heard on AM radio, which seems completely impossible even in hindsight. However, CHUM was the first place I heard Nick Lowe's "Cruel To Be Kind," The B-52's "Rock Lobster", Bruce Springsteen's "Hungry Heart", Elvis Costello's "Pump It Up", The Waitresses' "I Know What Boys Like" (a love of which eventually led to Television because of Billy Ficca), The Ramones' "Rock 'N' Roll High School" and a score of other songs that still haven't grown tired to these ears. Sure, late-70s/early-'80s radio was already going downhill (as charted by Johnny Fever's attempts at keeping it real on WKRP), but there was still gold in them hills.

And it wasn't just the radio. The New Music (RIP) and later CityLimits introduced me to Nina Hagen, Cabaret Volitaire, Kraftwerk, a woman who sang a song called "White Sugar" that freaked me out (and who I cannot find on Google. Anyone remember it/her?) and on and on...

What A Crock

2009-01-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I asked for and received a Crock Pot for Christmas. Spurred by a really great veggie chili eaten at Matt and Kate's place in Kingston, I decided that my kitchen would become a slow-cooked haven. A couple of failed soups and a mediocre pot of chili later, I put the crock away. Subsequent usage was ok, but not good enough to make me an unabashed supporter, until now.

One afternoon spent googling refried bean recipes (yes, that might be a little nerdy. No, there are no good Mexican restaurants in Toronto, except maybe for El Sol, but that's a bit far for weekly dining excursions), I found a no-fry frijoles recipe calling for pintos, an onion, some garlic and jalapeno and a crock pot.

The beans are delicious: creamy, spicy (especially with some added chipotle and anchos) and flavourful. Best of all in this time of unemployment, the entire pot of beans (which yields about 8 hearty meals) costs about $2.

A few subistitutions make a perfect warm black bean dip, too.

The TV spouts out commercials for so-called deals at fast-food restaurants - $1.39 for a double bacon cheeseburger - in between broadcasts of the failing global economy. Babies suck on soda and sugared water (now with vitamins) and afternoon talk shows wonder why there's an obesity problem in North America. Everything's wrapped up to dazzle consumers into believing they have no time, that new is best, and that it's better to go out and get full quickly than to stay home, take some pride and really satisfy your hunger. I know I don't have kids to contend with, but it takes less time to prepare those beans than it does to take a shower.

Of course, home-cooked meals aren't always possible: I'm lucky to live in a neighbourhood that is full of good food from all over the world. Within a few blocks we have restraunts serving up treats from Jamaica, Lebanon, Tibet, China, India (Southern and Northern), Guyana, Ethiopia, Viet Nam, Ukraine, Poland and Japan. Most of them have options for vegetarians and carnivores and they generally don't cost much. Even in these trying times, we have choices.

People have been asking me what I'm going to do for a job. Honestly, I have no idea. I want to feed people. I want to learn how to make the best beans and rice (not to mention black-eyed peas, grits and baked beans) and I want to show others how to not just make the best of what they've got, but how to realize that what they have really is the best.

I Love The Old World

2009-01-07T11:00:00.000-08:00

I don't hold the past in false nostlalgia, but, like Jonathan Richman, I do love the old world. I'm looking at the table I use as a desk. It's two shades of brown formica with little star shapes in the corner. We found it on the side of the road after trying to buy a desk at Ikea, only to have it crack in half as we lifted it into the trunk of the car. This table pre-dates my birth for sure, and feels as solid as the day it was purchased. What's the point of buying new when it's not even built to last long enough to leave the parking lot?

I hate to throw things away: vegetable garbage becomes soup stock, soup-stained t-shirts go to the thrift store, thrift store finds make me shudder at the costs attached to things in vintage stores. A little rummaging makes life better. That's not to say I never buy anything new, but really, why buy some cheap plastic bowl that could be full of lead (or crack with the first beaten egg or whipped cream) when there's a gorgeous glass bowl from the 50s sitting at the local goodwill for a couple of bucks?

The same can be said about music. I love using my husband's Ipod to play music in the kitchen. A little Shuffle reminds me of bands I haven't listened to in years and mixes them in with enduring favourites and current interests. However, we recently sat down and played an evening's worth of singles, and the experience was entirely different: way less passive. I finally heard the Katie Stelmanis/Fucked Up split 7" that was given away at FU's Halloween show, which was a total treat. I listened to the single version of the Magnetic Fields' "I Don't Believe You" and thought about the friends I was making at the time I purchased it: friends who were acquaintances, but are now the closest of close. I listened to Alvin Stardust's "My Coo Ca Choo" and did a little shimmy sitting on the futon.

I gave away my old turntable the other day. It was part of the stereo I received for my 18th birthday and, though pretty good, it was time for one of slightly higher quality. I explained that the tone arm sometimes liked to return to the rest before even touching the platter. One half of the couple who took it said something along the lines of that not being too big a hassle for dealing with dead media. Now, Dead Media may well be my favourite Hefner album, and I knew what he meant about the death of vinyl, however, judging by the number of people - hipster kids to dad rockers - carrying around records (which for some moronic reason, the kids call 'vinyls'), I would argue that there's still a lot of life in 45s and 33 1/3s, not to mention 78s.

Introduction

2009-01-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

Hello and welcome to I Love The Old World, a blog about the things and people I really like. In the past, I've had fiction and non-fiction published, but I intend to use this spot to write about things that matter to me: music, food, manners, etc. I'm hoping to interview the people I've always wanted to talk to, but have never had the opportunity and maybe I'll also rummage through boxes of tapes to find and write about some of the interviews I've done in the past that deserve more space.

Some bands I really enjoy: Tom Petty, Teenage Fanclub, The Deadly Snakes, Yo La Tengo, Aztec Camera, The Velvet Crush.

Other things: Saying please and thank-you, blue skies and frosty air, cheese, cilantro, architecture, photography where the background tells the story