Dear Laurie

I went to see Chad VanGaalen tonight.* This wouldn't qualify as relevant in any sense (trust me on that) except that it got me thinking about you. Specifically, the last time I saw you. I don't know if it was the overwhelming youthfulness of the crowd - they'd have been, on average, the age we were last time we saw each other - or the aching earnestness of the skinny boy in the Handsome Furs shirt on stage, but goddamn, for a moment I was back at the Trash, at a Hayden show, hugging you a fast and disbelieving goodbye before the reality of my pending flight, the finality of the evening, and the inevitable tears set in. I remember you leaving before the show was done, and me waiting to chat with Hayden and getting him to sign a thieved poster for you. My memory gets sketchy around here, but I think I left it outside your apartment door on my way out of town. It always struck me as funny, that our last night would be at an CanCon indie show, because, really ... Down By Law, Sebadoh ... the bands I associate with you and that time, Hayden ... not exactly on par. But I suppose that wasn't really the point.

The point was that it was two of us, for the last time, in a long time.

We met over a boy. His name was Dan, and we both volunteered to decorate for the Student Film Society’s Hallowe’en party because it was at his house. Long story short, we did a fair amount of not so surreptitiously sizing each other up at the meeting, and by the end of the walk back to campus had sort of grudgingly admitted that ourselves that we liked each other. Random Dan facts: his birthday was on Valentine’s Day; he was once in the audience of Jerry Springer; and apparently he is a part-time farmer now. WTF?

You were different than most of the people at Queen’s (translate: didn’t eat ivy or row boats). Although I didn’t eat ivy, I did formerly row boats. However, I was from a crappy public school in BC and apparently spoke funny (i.e., didn’t pronounce vowels through my nose). I had badly bleached hair, and an eyebrow piercing and tattoos. You had always perfect (though ever-changing) hair, bigger tattoos, loved Spike Jones and were a huge dose of awesome antidote to the ridiculous girls in my dorm, with their Anne Geddes babies-in-flowerpot posters, Backstreet Boys, and constant pre-bar fighting and crying and making up. Ugh. Never even mind my one roommate who upped the barf ante with a Little Mermaid poster and Love Fool by the Cardigans on constant repeat. But I digress.

We lived together in our second year, with three other girls in a house that was, apparently, of former ill repute. Exhibit A being the Peterborough Needle Exchange shirt we found under the deck ("Don't Fuck With A User Unless He's Hooked on Condoms"), and Exhibit B being the cab drivers that thought we were hookers. I was broke and had to take what I thought at the time was a year off, working two shit jobs at the mall, never thinking that was the end of my higher education. I’d come home all grouchy from doing time at Le Chateau, with its endless Savage Garden soundtrack, or reeking of coffee from a shift at Second Cup and you’d be there, all lovely and raring to go out dancing at the Trash (remember shopping for the right running shoes? The ones that had enough bounce to let you get back on the heels?), or to do whatever it was we did at the grotty little place up Princess ... I can’t remember the name of it. I do remember sitting there, totally skeeved on mushrooms, convinced that my spinal fluid was leaking out of my neck tattoo.

We had fantastically fun nights, we had terribly scary nights, we hosted an epic party for which business card sized flyers were, unbeknownst to us at the time, handed out around town. We hitchhiked to Ottawa to catch a bus to Montreal for a rave (god, that word makes me shudder now). We returned the karma later that year by picking up a hitchhiker who not only turned out to be a carnie, but actually had a hook for a hand. I think every Sarah Michelle Gellar movie was based on this incident.

We pierced out tongues and ate popsicles. We talked about boys (invariably named Jason) and how your kids would be born with tattoos and wearing beaters, and ate chips and french onion dip. You trained me to make Kraft Dinner just.how.you.like.it...which was weirdly chunky. You took me to the SPCA to adopt Griffin, who paid you back by eating your chair and Bjork poster, and bringing in fleas that left the one other awesome roomie (hey Shannon!) and the two less awesome roomies alone, but left you so scarred below the knee that your mom offered to have him put down.

You had inarguably style and a pretty fierce sense of self. I was always a little in awe of you, and still am. Because I was, and in some ways still am, always searching, but you, you always seemed so sure.

So that night, a hundred years ago at the Trash, Hayden singing his slightly off-key sensitive boy music, I had no idea than that, what, 11, 12 years later it would still be the last time I saw you. Or that after all this time, and all the incredible friends I’ve made since, that there would still be a hole where you and your ever-present (diet?) Coke used to be.

You have two beautiful daughters (with a new addition on the way) and a husband who I've never met. Of course I've seen photos, and heard them on the background on the phone during our fleeting and awkward conversations. I had the opportunity to meet your husband and your beautiful Grace, of course, at your wedding. Your wedding that I was so excited for, and ultimately didn't attend. Small dose of the honesty here? And I'll type it fast because this is going to hurt. It wasn't just time off of a new job and money and logistics that that kept me from making the trip. Yes, those things were factors, but factors I could have mitigated and made work. It was me, indulging my old friend Depression, terrified of who I'd become, or rather not become, and who you'd always been, so beautiful and so fucking real (to paraphrase your song), and how I wouldn't fit anymore. As much as I love Facebook for facilitating reconnections with a lot of people I've lost track of over the years, the access to the lives I haven't been a part of, and the photos that show, so clearly, that I don't fit in them anymore, is the ugly flipside of that coin. I couldn't face being the nostalgic friend, the novelty that no one quite understands how they once fit. So I pulled the parachute. I went to Vancouver for the weekend instead and saw Bloc Party and Final Fantasy, feeling the whole time every inch the asshole that someone who, because of bullshit insecurities, skipped the wedding of one of the most important people to grace her life should. I'm so sorry. Your photos were so beautiful, and I should have been there, taking them.

I didn’t go to Chad VanGaalen expecting to come home to such an aching sense of nostalgia or want of a friend I haven’t seen since my 20s were still starchy fresh. I also didn’t expect to be gleeking beer in the hair of some dime-a-dozen indie ‘ho trying to douchebag her way between me and the stage, so surprises all over the place here. The beginning of the year was a bit of a shitstorm for me, and out of the loss and opportunity and franticness that all barreled together came a balls-out desire for some straight up honesty, and to say thank you to some people who have been so very important to me.

So Laurie, you’re first one the list. Thank you for being one of smartest, strongest, and unapologetically herself women I’ve known. I hope that, one day, when I have daughters, they will know you. Because I want them to know that independent and challenging and true to self is beautiful. And I can’t think of a better way than knowing you to deliver that message.

* I started writing this Sunday after the show, but due to a bad cold, a strong martini, and total lack of appropriateness filter put off finishing and posting it a few days.

Mixtape #1 - Finally....The Days are Getting Longer

I've always been a lover of mix tapes. Back in the olden days (you, know, the 90s), before recordable CDs and, um, internet (well, there was The Internet, but it certainly wasn't the monster it is today) mix tapes - actual 90 minute tapes - were how we shared and learned about new music. They were the soundtracks of our road trips, friendships and breakups. There was an art to arranging songs in just the right order so nothing got cut off just before a side ran out. They were hard to find your favorite song on, especially if your friend's car stereo had that weird ass thing where there was no fast forward, so you had to flip the tape over, rewind, flip it back, check if you'd gone too far or not far enough, flip it back rewind some more ... lather, rinse repeat until you got as close as humanly possible to the beginning of Lost Together, or whatever song summed up your particular unrequited-love-teen-angst-bullshit-moping-situation at the moment. They were prone to snagging and coming unraveled and patience and a steady hand were paramount to their successful respooling. A Bic pen - the kind with the octagonal shaped shaft - helped too.

There are parts of my life that feel in a way defined by the mix tapes I associate with them. They are love letters, Dear John's and diary entries spoken in a stranger's words and set to music. They represent the people I've loved, the ones I didn't at the time realize loved me and the friends I've left behind, and often lost touch with, in my far too frequent moves. Smashing Pumpkins' 1979 will forever remind me of Justine, who I adored in high school, and who was adored by the boy I was crushing on. It was on the mix she gave me when I moved across the country for university, with a little hand drawn cover cartoon of me. I think with Queen's pompoms. Chelsea, one of the loveliest women I've ever had the privilege of befriending, and I spent bitch-ass cold mornings delivering the Golden Word (one of the campus papers) together. It was in the heyday of Spice Girls and boy bands and we'd hear the same dozen songs in the pre-dawn dark every week, giggling at the awfulness of them as we sang along in her little white car. I want to say it was a Supra, but I don't remember it as well as the music. I still have the tape she made me of that early morning soundtrack. Specifically though, Portishead's Only You will always be my Chelsea song. There was a party, there were excessive drunkeness and tears and Chelsea making it all ok, and Only You was playing. And it was on the tape. And I'd rather associate her with Beth Gibbons than any of the Spice varitals.

Ani DiFranco's Untouchable Face - and this is truly cringeworthy - was the last song on a tape I made to give a guy I luuuurved before he left Kingston for a summer trip to Europe. I brought it to his house, palms sweating, heart racing ... only to find out I'd missed him by about an hour. I left it with his roommate, and cried on the way home. A few weeks later, I was overcome with the paralyzing fear that that song ... it was just too obvious. I think I was aiming for 'I think I'm in love with you, but I want to put that across in a subtle way that you can discover for yourself if you're looking to read something into this track list' and 'fuck you and your untouchable face, and fuck you for existing in the first place. And who am I that I should be vying for your touch, and who am I, I bet you can't even tell me that much' seemed, in retrospect, a little heavy handed in the delivery of the message. I actually got his roommate to get the tape back for me so I could erase the song off of it, and remove it from the track list on the painstakingly collaged cover. He came back and we had one fantastic summer date that ended with ‘Melissa, I’m attracted to you but... I’m moving to Vancouver in six weeks, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to start anything.’ I’m pretty sure it was a gentle let down, but I was so stunned that the word attracted even came out of his mouth in reference to me that I didn’t test the theory by saying what I should have. Which, obviously, was ‘But think of the damage we could do to each other in six weeks.’ Le sigh....

Most of the mixes I’ve made and received post-university are on CD, which, being a geek for making covers, I love. More space to play with. One of the best covers (and mixes) I ever received was from Linnea. The last track on the CD is Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism, introducing my still-favorite song by a band that I love and at one point managed to barter my extra guest list for a sold-out Seattle show in trade for a bed at a sold out hostel. Lali Puna’s Faking the Books will always be Dave. Dave who is so beautiful and who I don’t think I’ll ever really know. But whose fantastic mix is always near the top of the pile. Michelle has introduced me to a disproportionate number of my highest ranked bands, and the two mixes she gave me for my ill-fated move to Montreal are still loved and still played, though it’s a trifecta of covers from the Chill Mix - Elbow’s cover of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, Johnette Napolitano & Danny Lohner’s cover of Coldplay’s The Scientist and The Postal Service’s cover of Phil Collins’ Against All Odds that I listened to obsessively while navigating my way through the Metro on my way to and from my short lived job.

I’ve been making mixes pretty obsessively the past year or so, and I’ve gone through a few 50-spindles burning them for people. They’ve been weekly soundtracks to art class assignments, party invites and, more recently, therapy at a time when I haven’t the heart or energy to do much more than try to shut the world out with headphones.

Part of the impetus for reviving this blog was having a forum to share the music I’m listening to. Writing this has made me realize I really should make a mix tape compilation of my most memorable mix tape moments. I'll put that on list. For this week though, a taste of what's been often played as of late.

The songs are a mix of new friends and old flames: a catchy reminder that all shitty situations come to an end if you can just get through them; a song that - played live - made me inexplicably randy; an acoustic cover of an old favorite; something new from last year's bearded hotness, a new girl crush .... and on it goes. It's not an attempt to be all edgy and 'ohhh...check out all the cool shit I listen to', far from it. Just what I've been listening to the past few weeks, as the cherry trees have begun to blossom and the sun has decided to stay out long and late enough for a first evening patio beer.

You can download the mix here, but I'd recommend adding it to your podcasts, just because I am so damn proud that I figured out how to make a podcast. Whoot .... girl got skills! It's super easy. In iTunes, click on Advanced. In the dropdown menu click Subscribe to Podcast. Enter this URL: http://shes-so-melicious.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default. Note: You may have to enter it without the http:// . Sometimes it ends up putting that in twice. iTunes will do its thing, and when there are new podcasts they will download into your podcast files. It'll take about 6 minutes, so keep your pants on. You can also click the refresh button to check if there is anything exciting and new. If anyone has trouble with this let me know and I'll do a screenshot tutorial.

These images link to cover downloads - courtesy of wordle, because I'm just that lazy. I'm a Libra and can't make decisions for shit, so there are 2 choices.



Finally ... The Days are Getting Longer - Track List

1. This Year - The Mountain Goats
2. Why Not Smile - R.E.M.
3. Spent On Rainy Days - Bright Eyes
4. A Martyr For My Love For You - The White Stripes
5. Sound Of Terror - The Von Bondies
6. E-Bow - Sigur Rós
7. The Highest - The Dears
8. Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
9. Heart Of Gold - Neil Young
10. You, Appearing - M83
11. Maps - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
12. Blood Bank - Bon Iver
13. Lille - Lisa Hannigan
14. All We Have Is Now - The Flaming Lips
15. I Am The Odd One - Loney, Dear
16. Weather To Fly - Elbow
17. Oh Lord, My Heart - The Deadly Snakes
18. The Trouble and the Truth - Cuff The Duke

I've linked to all the band's websites, so if there is something you like, check it out, find their show dates, buy their music.

Be warned though, I have it on good authority that Cuff the Duke can cause spontaneous orgasms. At least live they can.

Heartbreak

Oh internet, you have broken what was left of my scarred, charred little heart.

Christopher Walken's Twitter was, in fact, not Christopher Walken's Twitter. There was a part of me that had assumed as much, but dammit, it was so witty and sly ... I didn't really care. Sort of like knowing from the pale band of skin on a tanned finger that the cute guy you met in the hotel bar has a wife back home.

But now, Internet, you've taken it all away. Because apparently fraud rules are more important than my heart's true joy.

No more Lucinda Williams dedications for you, fake disappeared Christopher Walken. You've left me cold and disillusioned. You snuck out before the first flicker of dawn, leaving me to my staggering mini-bar tab, shameface and possibly something itchy.

I wonder how you live with yourself. I wonder, but there isn't enough left of me to care.

Weekly Fail

I have accomplished nothing on my weekly to-do list. This whole accountability thing is for far more accountable people than I. The mail is still in a pile, taxes unprocessed, smoke detector sitting on the printer, curtain rod leaning against the fireplace ... and it goes on. I did get the wall partially patched, but it needs another fill, a sand and paint before I reinstall. Le sigh.

Fail.com

Words of Wisdom from Uncle Karl

"Loving someone is fine, but they have to love you back or it doesn’t work."

Thank you, Karl Lagerfeld, for Tweeting my life story in 140 characters or less.

******
I'm stuck for a track for Daily Sound, which is sort of redonk given my PhD in Unrequited Love (my education started in kindergarten with Danny White) so I'm taking suggestions. Anything you want to nominate as an anthem for the Union of the Emotionally Retarded and Flag Bearers of Inappropriate Crushes?

******

Update Nine Inch Nails - Something I Can Never Have. Obviously. I just needed a moment to access my deep chasm of self indulgent emotional dramatics and negotiate my way back to university - this song (playing on a bright yellow Sony Sports Walkman, natch), a bitterly cold fall night wandering Queen's campus with its spooky and imposing limestone buildings and the certain knowledge that a TA named Jason thought absolutely nothing of me beyond that I wrote great essays about dull films exploring themes of diaspora.

I'm linking to a video, because, well, Trent Reznor is hot. And this is a full service blog.

PS - I also wrote a paper on assumptions of male domination in Pretty Woman. That's right. Pretty Woman. They don't call it the Harvard of the North for nothing.

PPS - I still have those papers if any dishonest little buggers are looking for something in the 82% - 90% range. From Queen's remember. That's like 95% to 100% at normal schools. Snap! Oh yes I did! I am a snob.

I am also a Queen's dropout. Last laugh on me.

In lieu of having anything to say ...

I'm not in a bloggy place today, so in lieu of writing much of anything I'm going to post some photos that would have been up here eons ago if I hadn't been so delinquent with the blogging for, um, years. They won't be anything new to anyone who's poked through my Facebook albums (so both of you, most likely) but hells, they should have been posted eons ago.

Anywhoo.... I thought I'd post a few shots from my trip to China in 2006.

So of course the first day, running on very little sleep, we were trucked out to the Great Wall. It is spectacular. And challenging, having very steep and very uneven steps. And very surreal to get a good way up and hear Hollerback Girl blasting from a tour bus in the parking lot.



This killed me, we were at this massive buddha monument, and there were rollerskate rentals outside. If my little hospital side-trip hadn't just proved my universal health care less than universal I would have been tempted to throw injury caution to the wind and give'r.



I think this was the same day. The thing I had the hardest time with was being so on the go that it was hard to get good shots in. This might have been from the bus. There was something about the little outpost that was a little sad and lonely.



We did some hella touristy king fu shows and such. The first one was pretty impressive, but I'd stop at one next time.









I could have spent days wandering the houtongs in Beijing. So much history and life and bustle and smells just careening around in these little alleys.



I loved this guy, totally rickety ass old cart - and he's all chilled out texting on a way more skookum phone that I had at the time. Or have now for that matter.



Apparently the mayor was going to be coming through just after us, and this policeman was keeping an eye out for ruffians.



The rickshaws are very pretty, but oh my god, I thought it was going to fall apart under me, like in some bad cartoon.



Dave got a shot about 2 seconds after me where this little bag of donuts turned into something from Pet Cemetery.



This was taken in Jinan, which possibly my favorite place on the trip. They have a fantastic public space / park which is surrounded by a moat with bridges connecting it to the surrounding roadways. This busker blew my mind. Shame about the pollution smog though.



At night the park is total action - and not in a skeevy way. Ballroom dancing, rollerskating - well utilized public space, and kids that don't look like they rot on their asses playing video games all night.





I'm blanking out on the names of the towns these were taken in. Sorry, just got in from wings and beer. West Lake maybe?







There are some curious food storage practices. Which might explain my little e-coli induced hospital detour. (Note, I did not eat any of the foods shown below).









This is my favorite shot of the trip.



And totally unrelated, but because I am totally charmed by Christopher Walken's Twitter (part of my Lainey addiction issue - she's like a gateway drug) the Daily Sound- Lucinda Williams' Something About What Happens When We Talk goes out to him. Because I love a man that Twits about Lucinda Williams. And I'm feeling a little like this song lately.

Tuesday is the New Funday

I know I often bitch about Victoria's music scene - or lack thereof - because we don't get a fraction of the tour action Vancouver sees. True, there is little likelihood that Sigur Ros or Bloc Party will ever grace us with their presence, but to be fair, things are looking up for the next few months. Shout Out Out Out Out, Wintersleep (sold out before I got my damn ticket, so internet machine, bring me some ticket karma), Elliott Brood, Chad Vangaalen, Attack in Black (so much better live than recorded) and the Dears are on my to-do list, and with the lovely Otto making her way back from Deutschland in a month my good -time-lady-posse will be nicely rounded out. I'm priming up for some shoegazing with intermittent bouts of ass shaking. Thank God for Atomique Productions.

The Von Bondies show a few weeks ago shook me out of my bitching phase. First, The Racoons (Their choice to miss a c, not mine) left me wishing I'd hurried my ass up and gotten there earlier. Victoria has birthed some fantastic talent, and The Racoons seem poised to take the local hero status left vacant with Wolf Parade's move east. They're catchy as hell, tight on stage, and have some really trampy fans. Recipe for success? I think so.

I also ran into an old friend from high school - really more the super-awesome-arty-I-want-to-be-like-her-but-am-just-not-cool girlcrush from high school. And of course I completely dorked out, because that's what I do. And of course, she's still awesome and crushable, because that's who she is. We were chatting and a very attractive dude comes over, and she says "Don, this is my old friend Melissa. She came to see your band." Yeah, that would have been Don Blum, the Von Bondies' drummer. Friends with the Von Bondies from her year in Detroit .... further proof that, while the so called popular douchbags peak around 18 and wither into paunchy balding disasters, the arty awesome kids keep on that trajectory through life. And she did her Brenda Walsh face for me. Girlcrush, reactivated.

I started right at the front, because I love me some flinging band sweat, but, due to a gimpy back from a tumble down the stairs, and well, a bitchin' case of The Thirties, I had to retreat back a bit when the kids got all whipped up frenzylike. Moshing? They still do that? It sort of freaked me out that when I was going through my moshy phase most of the crowd was in the kindergarten to grade 3 range. Shudder.

Anyhow, Von Bondies, fantastic live. And this song, this one song, as I said to the friend I was with, is the soundtrack for a night you are out too late and drink too much and are probably a little high and are working your way out of your clothes before you hit the apartment door and have totally Quentin Tarantino movie sex with someone who's maybe a little dangerous and totally wrong for you ... Or that's how it struck me at the time. Not so much in the comfort of my bathrobe and living room, but live, oh hells yeah.

Daily Sound: Von Bondies - Sound of Terror. Listen here. Yes, I know it links to Amazon, but it's not on the Von Bondies MySpace, and I am disinclined to dick around looking for a cooler link.

On the way home we had a killer cab driver who was blogging on his iPhone when he picked us up. I forgot about it until now, but I just found his blog, diaryofataxidriver, and am glad I did, because it makes me want to dig out my Diana and Supersampler and take pretty, surreal photos of my friends. So, thank you taxi driver.

This is why the internet should be breathalyzer activated.

Seriously. I mean, on the upside, despite it having been posted 2:30 am after a lot of beer, I did remember to spellcheck, and I can live with the grammar oopsie. But really ... all class.

The best part is that I think this ad might be about the same guy. Though there were a few hot guys with stars on their cheeks. In fact, I think we may have cracked the 'where do all the tasty man-treats in this town hide' code. At Urbanite. Which really ought to happen more than once every four months. 'Cause Mama needs some eye candy.

I did have some pretty bitching hiccups last night.

Oh. Dear. God. Not this blogging thing again....

That's right, I'm giving this another crack after a long hiatus. I'm still wrapping my head around the format / content this is going to take, but basically I was thinking Damn, I'm cranking through a lot of CDs burning mixes for my friends, I should podcast them. Which got me thinking about blogging, and having somewhere to post them. Plus, you know, third-life crisis going on (Sooo scary that I'm past quarter-life. Third-life is even optimistic. There aren't a lot of 96 year olds in my family.) so really, what better way to sort out my whole who am I, what do I want to do with my life angst than in a totally public forum that exactly two people are likely to read (Hey Michelle and Helen!). 

So, here's hoping I become an internet phenom, or at least break through my post-a-year barrier.


Daily Sound - Bon Iver Blood Bank. Listen here.

Newsflash

I fall in love with all the wrong people.

Question

Why do wet under ground parkades smell exactly like skating rinks?

Seriously, this has been bugging me for years. Is it the wet, contained concrete?

Discuss among yourselves.

World Champion Best Trouper Ever!

Shout out to Helen, who, despite a serious and impairing hangover, despite having to detour off the path a few times to hurl, managed to be the most fantastically upbeat and charming marning-walk-to-Venice buddy a girl could ask for. And shout outs to the City of Santa Monica Parks and Rec department for having the forsight to install loos at approximately every 100 yards. Genius move. Honestly though, Helen, I don't know how you did it, but you set the bar for for fantastic hangover attitude. Really. Not a moment of whining. Just the ocassional quick purge followed by, "Do you have a piece of gum...ooh...there's a nice skirt over there." Way to keep focused!

Venice Beach is a Velveeta as I remember it, but we made it to the Canals, which I missed last time. Very pretty and charming, again, probably better in pictures, but a lovely break from the commercial nightmare of endless stalls of cheap sunglasses and bikini print tshirts that is Venice Beach. Incongrously tranquil, really.

Helen had to be back at the hostel for a 2:00 ride to the airport, so I spent the afternoon doing the retail wander on the promenade. Some good stores, but pretty much Robson if Robson had the good stuff like Urban Outfitters and Anthropolige. Apparently there is no one in this zip code over a size 10, so I saved a lot of money by virtue of the fack that I am to Chunk for the good clothes. Jeesus. And even the shoes - which you really have to be orrca fat to not fit - were a bust. None of the 3 pairs I was eying online were in the stores, and what I did find was too cougar for me. I'm not quite there yet. Did get a cute pair of flats, but the Puma's and sandals I will be hunting online. As well as the Stella Sheer perfume which, in true jackass form, I didn't pick up when I waw it at the Santa Monica Sephora, where it is possible the last bottle in California. Der.

Stomping All Over Tom Cruise

I never made it through that early night sleep on Sunday, my lovely Kiwi room-mate Helen roused me from my restless attempt to sleep for a late night beer with some of the hostel lads. Glad of it too, living isn't really complete until you've witnessed a gargantuan, affable Sasquatch of an Aussie bring down the house with Welcome to the Jungle. Long live karaoke, long live GnR!

Helen, Jamie (one of the aformentioned lads) and I got our tourist on on Monday, braving the LA transit to Hollywood Boulevard, the mecca for arcane, tacky LA LA Land goodness. Really the sort of thing I'd have felt an ass doing on my own, but Jamie and Helen proved to be game for some serious touriste action. Really, I think there isn't much point trying to explain it until the pictures are uo next week, but there was some Scientilogy recruiting attemtps, and a little Tommy Cruise star stomping in retaliation. Pictures, pitchers (at Hooters...natch) and general cheesiness ensued until we were all suitable buzzed and burned, and we stumbled our way in to the Metro to begin the arduous journey back. Seriously, bus rides take FOREVER here, and all the buses smell like mildewy socks. They do, however, have in-flight entertainment in the form of tv's, and the bus drivers are fantastic. No shitting, I actually heard one say, "No problem sir, I'm here to help."Like totally seriously and unironically. This trip is really messing with my Canadian superiority complex, I've arrived at the conclusion that the Canadian kindness/hospitality thing is a ruse, we're just apologetic and nonconfrontational. Compared to the approachability of Americans we're almost standoffish. I don't think it's a rude thing, on the contrary I think it's in effort to not impose on or disturb people, but I really hate that my natural reaction when people randomly approach me is suspicion. Sometimes they're just some friendly dude named Paco offering M&M's, and if you want, access to a party with piles of blow. Don't worry Mom, I didn't go, I just got the blow report from the affable Aussie, and no I didn't eatthe M&M's either.

Where did that paragraph go? Dear lord, someone is verbal tonight! Anyhoo, Hollywood = delighthfully/horifically cheesy. Biggest dissapointment, the Kodak Theatre is in a mall. IN A MALL, YA'LL! Only in America would the most watched show in the entire world (The Oscar's...duh) be broadcast from an (albeit glorified) mall. Seriously.

By the way, I know these entries are a veritable web of typos and spelling errors, but at 10 cents a minute on less than high speed computers I'm not spell or grammer checking. So go ahead, feel superior. I'm a crap speller.

First LA Brush With Fame

Note that this posting was started Sunday evening, and just made it's way to post Thurs. Morning.

So I've been in LA exactly 6 hours and I've already been in a film, witnessed the stalkeratzi in action, and been moved to tears (ok, welled up a bit) twice. And all this on 2.5 hours sleep, and without the benefit of any caffine today.

The flight was lovely, it's been so long since I've flown out of Vancouver in the daylight, I'd forgotten how breathtaking it is. Absolutely clear, fabulous view of Mt. Saint Helen's. Stunning.

I got in to LAX early, took a ride-share van to Santa Monica, and registered at the hostel, fighting the strong urge to drop right on to my bottom bunk and pass out. Instead I got my tourist on and headed to the pier. Oh lord, the bastion of tacky tourism that is. I also found it very distressing that the kid's meal at Taco Bell is 2 soft tacos, nachos with cheesy-byproduct dip, and a coke. I know that because I ate it. And barely got through it, which would probably expain all the fat kids on the pier.

I was accosted by a large flock of blue shirted tweens who asked me to be in the documentary project about the environment. Despite the fact that they were some sort of Zionist youth group and sort of freaky, I said yes. Because you never know, it could get passed to Robert Altman inspiring him to track me down and cast me in his next opus. But I digress. So read 1 line for the kiddies, something about how many kazillion pounds of junk mail Americans receive every year that ends up in the landfill. Shocking.

I wandered down to the beach to cross over to The Nomadic Museum, and compelled to check out the adjacent Arlington West - a monument to service men and women that have lost their lives in Iraq. There are over 1000 white crosses planted in rows in the sand, each one representing a fallen soldier. And in front there is a sign declaring that if a cross was erected for every Iraqi life lost the beach would be covered in crosses, and it is a big ass beach. It sounds cheesy, and I was typically skeptical, but moving along the info boards and reading the indivisual stories and hearing the man behind me crying brought me to tears. People can leave messages on the crosses of sepcific servicepeople, and the messages from families and friend are laminated and marked with a star. I was particuarly taken by the cross of PFC Lori Ann Piestewa, heavily adorned with messages, most with silver stars. Messages I can't imagine leaving for a sister or friend.

I moved over to the Nomadic Museum, which is as impressive for the building it is housed in as for the photography of Gregory Colbert housed inside. The building is constructed of hundreds of shipping containers, huge cardboard tubes and suspension wires. The interior is earily tranquil for something so industrial, the photos (mostly sepia prints of animals interacting with man) are suspended on either side of a rough plank path, both sides of which are flanked by smooth river stones. Unfortunately I couldn't take any photos inside, but I'll try to scan and post a piece from the brochure. Second welling of tears occured here.

I came back to the hostel and met my room-mate Helen - it is an 8 bed room, but just us so far - she went off to explore and I am going for an early sleep.

Awww....Those Crazy Christians.

I saw Sin City yesterday. And last night I dreamt of horrid yellow horny goblins. Gahhhh...I am so much better with hyper-realistic violence and gore than the Sin City variety, it's too close to what happens in my head, and far too creepy. As it's been a while since I visited the good people at christiananswers.net, I thought I'd pop by to see what they had to say about this little gem of a film.

For those not in the know, christiananswers.net is a site I found on my friend Beau's site, it has all sorts of helpful advice on dating, lifestyle etc. (more on that later) but it also has a kick ass movie section where you can see how films rate on a Christian scale. Kirk Cameron movies tend to do well, Tarintino, not so well. Check it out at:

http://christiananswers.net/spotlight/home.html

Some Sin City Excerpts:

"This movie is not Evil, it's a wake up call, that a good christian soldier would be proud to respond to, not by attacking the film, but by purifying the world so that the film no longer exemplifies reality."

"Anyone who complains about the violence misses the fact that this is a modern morality tale, much akin to the way "Double Indemity" was. Bad guys are punished. Those who help bad guys, aka "Becky" or "Cardinal Roak" are punished as well. Sacrifice is a very prominent theme amidst a city populated with self-centered individuals. It is so over-stylized to emphasize the incredible choices they are making and how much trouble they are willing to get themselves into for others."

"Watch at your own risk, but be warned; your mind and soul will pay the price."

Personally, I think they're reading a bit much in to it, but whatever floats your boat.

ChristianAnswers also has really helpful advice on other topics, such as:
Depression:
"Some cases of depression may be caused by chemical imbalances. If that is the cause, then antidepressant drugs may be the answer. God has allowed mankind to learn about many medical tools, and He sometimes uses medicine to heal."
Ummm....well that's a relief. The Prozac won't send me to hell. Funny how different the vibe on medical tools to end unwanted pregnancy is.

Masturbation:
"Sex was clearly meant for two people--that is why masturbation goes against God's purpose for sexuality."
Dammit! And hello, what about mutual masturbation? Hmmmm??? That's between 2 (or more!) people.
"Masturbation is almost always a symptom of a deeper need. What is motivating you to masturbation? Are you lonely? Are you depressed? Are you afraid to date? (Are you not spending time getting to know the students in a good youth group?)"
Ummmm...no...just horny. Honest.

I know I'll probably go to hell for this post (but not the Prozac!), but really. It's just too good to not poke fun at.

Don't even get me started on the new disposible Pope.

It's Not a Tumor!

C'mon, if you had constant stabbing headaches, cranial pressure, eye flutters and numbness in your hand, you'd think "Aw shit. Maybe it's a tumor." Right? Or maybe I'm just a little bit of a hypochondriac. Because according to my doctor, it is, in fact, not a tumor. And yes, he did say it just like Arnie, proving that there are in fact medical professionals with a sense of humor. Apparently the stabbing headaches are indicitive of stress, which is the same thing my I was told about the stabbing pain in my right breast last summer. Not a tumor, stress. Which is weird, because I don't generally feel stressed. I mean, sure, day to day minor stress, but not big time pain inducing stressed. I really should get back in to yoga or something.

Anywhooo.... after determining that it was not a tumor, my doctor decided to investigate the tingly numbness thing. Blood test showed that I am low in B-12, so to determine if I am not getting enough in my diet or am not absorbing it (something to do with not producing intrinsic factor) my Doc ordered a Shilling's test. All I was told is that it involves taking a radioactive B-12 pill and a urine test. Now in my experience any test that involves radioactive tracers takes as while, as the tracer has to work it's way through your system, so it can be traced. Not wanting to miss more work than necessary, I called the Nuclear Medicine unit at Royal Jubilee Hospital to inquire as to the lengh of the test. 15 minutes I was told, which surprised me, as I figured it was a "Take this pill and pee in this cup after 3 hours" sort of a deal.

So I get to the hospital at 8:45 am, am given a B-12 shot and the pill, and handed what looked like an orange 3 litre gas can and a nuns hat. Ummmm....excuse me? Apparently whoever answered the phone when I called didn't think the fact this test involved a 24 hour urine collection to be relevant information. The little nuns hat was a plastic insert to put over the toilet to pee into, which was then to be transfered in to my gas tank thingy. Yeah, that was a fun call to make to my new job, "sorry, can't come in, I'm harvesting piss today." I mean seriously, it's sort of a take the day off work kind of thing. No one wants to see me sloshing about with a tank of pee.

I owe Ruth a huge thank you for driving me back to the hospital the next dau so that I wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of taking my 2305 ml of pee in the not so subtle container (my name and 25 hour urine collection we sharpied on the side) on the bus.

I've had a wicked nasty cold for the past few days and, despite my Granny's trying to convince me to go to the doctor, I am holding out. I think the whole pee thing was God's way of telling me to chill out on the health woes.

Dodging Bullets With MY Beyatch Fiddy M

Again, it's been over a month since I've blogged. Lawdy, lawdy....I am so negligent. There is so much to write, but I'll have to save the tale of the 24 hr. urine collection for later as there is bigger drama to tell.

I went to Vancouver on Saturday for a quicky (not that kind, gutter head, the musical type). The Album Leaf was playing and as nothing comes to Victoria I was gearing to go. Great show, mad props to Team Waplington for scintellating music conversation. Michelle and I hauled it over to DV8 for a little nosh after, insert mad props to Team Harley/Clay for keeping it real during the motel scene happenning in the 2 adjoining booths(Apparently DV8 is the new hotspot to get yer 4play on). Michelle and I headed back to the car around 2-2:30ish, and as we passed Richards on Richards noticed a rather un-Richards like chachi crowd outside. When we were about a 1/2 block north if the club we heard what sounded like a fire cracker, sort of a pop and woosh, then something passed over our heads and hit the building. I was on the inside (next to the building) and when I turned to Michelle she was holding her cheek. I think she said it stung more than hurt and there was a little cut with a red blotch around it. At that point we thought that some jackass had set off a firecracker, which had hit the building and a little chunk of firecraker shrapnel hit her. We were totally pissed, a few inches up and it would have been in her eye. If I were a few inches taller, it would have been my head. Score 1 point for shorties.

The cops were there within a minute, but we did not stick around as we were both exhausted and irked. We sort of joked that she caught the lightening bolt God intended for me for being such a mean ass, but didn't think much of it other than it was another sketchy Vancouver story (see: witnessing of assault and stabbing & break up of post Holt Renfrew party gay domestic smack down).

The next day Michelle texted me to say that her parents had called and asked if she had heard about the shooting at Richards on Richards. How often do you get to tell your parents, "Yeah mom, I heard about and in fact, was there and sustained a minor injury." Jesus. So we are thinking that the bullet probably hit the building just above us (it was close enough to hear it pass) and a little piece of concrete or something flew off and hit Michelle. So post incident scary, I just keep thinking that if it had hit the metal window frame it could have ricochet in to us. Needless to say, next time I see Michelle, she is getting hella hugs.

Which brings me to a point. Not to be all mega dramatic, but it did sort of get me thinking that it really could be that fast. You're just walking down the street and a random bullet/out of control car/ falling window washer takes you out. Done. Over. No good-byes. No, 'Aw shit, did I tell my parents/partner/friends that I love them today?" So tell them. And for the record, if you are reading this you are probably someone I care about, so if the law of averages make an exception for me and I have another handshake with a bullet, know that you are loved.

Special shout outs to my dearest gangsta girl, who you can all now call Fiddy M.

BC vs. Montreal Part 1

Well, I've been back in BC a while now, long enough that I thought I'd have my head wrapped the weirdness that has been my life so far this year, but I don't. So in effort to straighten my head out and determine how kosher running home to BC at the first sign of office abuse/impending violence was, I thought it made sense to have a little faceoff. Ok, I know it sounds unfair pitting all of BC against little ol' Montreal, but I figured Vancouver vs. Montreal vs. Victoria was a bit much, and Victoria is like consolation round Vancouver, so I though I'd lump them together.

Sex: BC - Ok, I know I always whine about how dry it is (that's figuratively, not literally), and dating wise there is ass all, but the less discriminating gal can always find a little 'oooh daddy', be it a co-worker who spanks it to a picture of you, a co-worker who spanks you in the middle of Stanley Park, or a Brit with a Starsky and Hutch festish. The series, not the movie. Give me some credit. Granted, I was in Montreal for less that 2 months, but the best I got was the occassional mounting and subsequent dry humping of a terrified gay man, and a French girl with whom I who made out like a banshee, but she then got hammered, fell down, hit her head, and ended up in the hospital before we could get our lesbian on.
Advantage: BC

Family: BC - genereally smothered with love - from teabags and cookies finding their way in to by bag and reminders to pack tampons to little notes on the toilet seat- which I realize I am an ingrate for not appreciating more, but dammit, I am an autonomous creature, I am used to my space! In Montreal, on the other hand, I had only my psycho cousin who proclaimed, "Big Cousin was going to take care of Little Cousin." Which sounds nice until you realize that "taking care" really means "yelling at" "belittling" and "screwing out of moving expenses".
Advantage: BC - Disclaimer : though I do recognize and appreciate my cousin's contribution towards the gradual and inevitable effacement of every shred of my self worth. Thanks, Cuz!

Late Night TV: BC - To be fair, in BC I a) didn't have cable and b) had enough of a life that I was out late and didn't watch a lot of late night tv. So I can't really compare, but Ihave a hard time believing it could compete with Montreal, with it's soft core porn on Channel 6 and MusiMax, which is essentially really dirty music videos shown between Playboy channel short films. You might not be getting much sex, but at least there is something to fuel the spank fantasies when you are stuck home masterbating on a Friday night.
Advantage: Montreal. Clearly.

Transit: BC - Yeah, the Skytrain is expanding, the busses run late on the weekend, and my Mom gives me bus tickets (or did, until work bought me a bus pass), but Montreal has a proper Metro, with underground Art Deco stations, and that breeds a whole different kind of Crazees, which is really the prime reason for riding transit. That, or you are broke-ass, don't have a car, and if you did it wouldn't matter because you don't have a license. Damn, I am a sad, sad bastard.
Advantage: Montreal, but I am no less a sad non-driving bastard there.

Standing tally - 2 ALL

Part two will follow in the coming days. I know, you're hopping with the anticipation.

The Red Shoe Diary

OK, I admit, I am a bad, bad, bad blogger. But in my defense, it is really hard to get motivated when every time you sit at the computer, someone starts nattering at you. Not easy to organize ones thoughts. But I digress.

So...I'm back in Victoria, which if you know me at all you know is not high on my happy list. Yes, I am trying to look on the bright side. Like as I might actually save some money, as there is absolutely fuck all to do here. Seriously. Thank god that the Vancouver boys seem to be on a weekend Island rotation. Thanks Scarley and Toby for giving me reason to get ass out of the house. James, you're up. OH!!! And happy birthday! Not sure if you got my text, apparently my new fangled phone does not work with a lot of the older ones. Not that I'm saying that yours is old. Maybe just not so compatible.

So, yes, I've got me a job. Nothing too interesting, it's at a planning firm, so it's familiar territory. I agreed to six months, we'll see after that. I don't know, I'm still sort of thinking about the hairdressing route. Or indentured servitute. Whatever.

I had another weird bus moment yesterday. I was sitting on the bus, all early morning bleary eyed, and the rather Saltspring/biker-chick woman that sat next to me commented on my red shoes, and started telling me about Women Who Run With the Wolves, which she had just borrowed from a friend, and how it made her realize that woman have been domesticized and need to embrace our feral side. Which I am all for. Anywhoooo.....she proceeds to whip open her grungy ol' backpack and pulls out the book, flips it open to a page that is marked with a post it, to a story called The Red Shoes, and starts reading me a passage that - albeit poorly paraphrased - went something like this...

"Be glad you shoes are plain. If your shoes are too red it makes for a very difficult life"

I shit you not. I was all like, " Are you f'ing kidding me? You just happen to be sitting next to me, with that in your bag, with that page marked, on the first day I've worn my little ol' red Mary-Jane's this year?" Not that I said that, but I was thinking it.

So she thanked me for 'being an inspiration' and got off the bus to go to her rally on the legistature lawn, on the advice of a 'lovely lady cop that told [her] that the laws are not in place to protect the people." I carried on to work, confused, somewhat startled, and very certain that the strange bus people that you meet in Victoria are their own odd and special breed.

On Monday It's Melissa...

First, I have to say a big Whoop, there it is!!!!! to the Academy in recognition of their finally retreiving their heads from their asses. Way to vote, muthafucka's! Almost everything I wanted. Whee hee. Remember that part where I said the Avaitor would probably win all the technical awards as a consolation in case it didn't win the bigun's? I am so good. Sadly, if I stay in the purgatory known as Victoria, that may just have been my last informed Oscar season, as it takes forfreakinever for anything good to come out here. Sniff sniff. Sigh.

It is so weird to be back. I keep running in to peripheral people from my former life here. Twice I've seen Mean Eric - I was his rebound after his hot girlfriend left him for a hot girlfriend - who obviously I pretended to not recognize. He's all bleached blond and hair stylist looking, I'm guessing he finally got his gay card stamped. We were all pretty sure he and our friend Don were going to get together, I am so wondering. Jeeesus, that would have been hot. But I digress.

I used to work at Murchie's with Don, which despite being a craphole to work in was a lot of fun. I lived with a co-worker, and one lived in the apartment below us, we were a supertight group. Obviously all the cool people have moved on, but the lifers are still there. Staff and customer. So weird. There were always these 2 freaky ladies that sat in the front window, Christy dubbed them Headband (because she always wore one) and Yoda (because, duh, she looks like Yoda). Sure enough, Yoda was sitting in the exact same seat when I went by yesterday. It totally skeeved me out. If she's kept up the routine of tea and a scone every day for the past 5 years, and it was EVERY DAY, then shes spent $6300 just on tea and scones since I left Victoria. That's like, several vacations. Which seems sort of sad, especially when I think of how much I've spent on coffee in the same time. Probably a few trips to Coachella. That is too sad for words.

On an happier note, I am temping for the next few weeks, and got a call from Maximus (the company that is taking over BC Health Care, don't kill me!), so I should possibly, maybe, hopefully be able to afford to get my ass to Vancouver soon. You don't understand, I am dying for some decent music here! The most promisimg poster I've seen so far was for The Original 2 Live Crew featuring the Booty Dancers. C'mon, ya'll know the song:

"On Monday it's Melissa, I like to get with her, I take all her money, and then I diss her!"

Story of my freakin' life, or at least it would be if I ever had any money.