Author Archives: Steffani Cameron

A Last Look at a Horrible Crime

In 2008, my brother’s closest friend from high school and his early 20s was killed in a bizarre Craigslist murder that has captured the media’s attention.
Yesterday, the jury came back with a verdict of guilty. Mark Twitchell will, it seems, spend 25 to life behind bars. (Thanks, Jury.)

The poster Johnny's friends made when he first "disappeared".


My brother has obsessed over the case, following it in extreme detail. The murder broke his heart, I guess because Johnny Altinger was one of those quiet dorks that everyone loved because he was able to be himself. John was a little obnoxious, a little sweet, a little clueless. But he was a whole lot of good. He was a good, good, good man, and he trusted people at the blink of an eye.
Their crowd grew up on the computer, they were the original “social media” crowd. They talked on chat systems, came of age as the humble modem grew from 110bps to 300, then to 1200, then 2400… and now at seemingly the speed of light.
It was an oddball mix, back then. Folks too smart for the general population, kids too outside the norm to conform to the school crowd. They found like-minded friends on the precursor to the Internet, the Dial-Up Generation.
Johnny was the kind of guy who, in the ’70s, would’ve been stuck in lockers or mocked senselessly at school. He had a big nose, bad glasses, awkward gait, goofy teeth. But, coming of age in the ’80s, he found his crowd online, and so did my brother. Some of their friendships are as strong now, 25 years later, as they were then — friendships born on ideas and discussions, not just happening to be in the same class or born in the same neighbourhood, friendships that seemingly came from a deeper place and lasted longer on merit alone.
Johnny A and my bro kept in touch when Johnny moved north. They chatted online, stayed in touch, traded book titles to read, shared video files — at length. It wasn’t a surprise to hear that, given his newly isolated northern home, John was meeting more friends off the computer, and even using Craigslist for dating.
All right: I’ll be the first to admit that Johnny annoyed me. A lot.
But he was my brother’s friend, I was 16 or 18 or so, and that’s how it rolls — older brothers and their friends torment the annoying little sister. I think it’s Sibling Rule 72, paragraphs A through C.
That said, there were those rare moments where we both managed to be ourselves, rules aside, and I liked what I saw of him. More importantly, he was always a friend when my brother needed one.
But we were never close, and I don’t want to pretend we were. My brother didn’t live at home when he and Johnny were friends, so I really seldom ever saw him. He wasn’t even someone I’d even thought of in 5 years, aside from my bro’s rare mentioning of him.
Still, when I heard not only of his death but the horrific circumstances behind his death, I rethought many things I assumed to be true in life.
No one I know will ever be bludgeoned, stabbed, dismembered, burned, and dumped in a sewer. Wrong. Internet violence is a myth, it could never happen to me. Wrong. This stuff only happens in the movies. Wrong. Canada is a nice safe place. Wrong.
I’m more skeptical of people I meet now. More dubious of online followers, usually distrustful that they are who they say. When I see X many people in my audience, I now assume, the larger the number grows, that some amongst them are just plain evil. Because now I know it’s out there.
I thought my innocence was shattered in my teens, but the truly heinous nature of this crime, and the fact that it’s even touched the peripheries of my life, gave my remaining innocence a big adjustment.
And it’s so weird.
Now everyone wants to know about John. Everyone wants to hear “what was he like?” My brother can’t even log onto Facebook without a new reporter trying to contact him.
But where were these curiousity-seekers when he was looking for friends and relationships on Craigslist? Sure, now you have a story to file. Now you’re bored and surfing the web at work. Now you’re interested.
That part makes me angry. Now, interested. Now, prying through his life. Always with the sensationalizing. But I was trained as a journalist, so I get it, too. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Sigh. I don’t know. This whole case… the tragic death of a good guy, Johnny Altinger, it’s just so fucking unsettling when I think of the guy I knew, and THIS happened to him. If there’s anything I have, it’s a very healthy imagination. And this turns my stomach every time a flash of an image hits me.
My creative side has always wanted to write macabre books with twisted deaths. Sometimes I think about it now, but I stop at a thought of Johnny and I feel physically ill. It’s straight out of Dexter, ripped from fiction, what happened to him.
There are things that happen that really shake our faith in people, and this chapter has been one for me.
There’s a severe disconnect between the kind of person it takes to commit this kind of crime, and the kind of trusting person it takes to be a victim of this crime, and the idea that they both are in this same world, at the same time, breathing the same air…
When they told me the world was full of possibilities, well, I never for a moment wanted to believe they meant it like that.
Still.
Twitchell didn’t get to become the serial killer he dreamed of becoming.
People noticed him. He got caught. That says something, right?
People are horrified by the crime. That says something, too, right?
But I still can’t watch Dexter. It cuts too close to home. I’ve never been able to imagine a victim’s mindset like this before, and I hope I’m never able again.
Rest in peace, Johnny.
I hope it’s the hardest time imaginable that Mark Twitchell serves. I honestly do.
Today, as a testimony against this kind of crime that preys on those who are lonely and looking for friendship, be nice to someone who might not get a lot of attention. Don’t brush off that small-talk-making stranger at the bus stop or store. Give them just a moment of your humanity. You just never know.

Keeping it Real on Vancouver’s 125th

In 1966, my parents moved from Ontario to Vancouver.
There are days when the beauty here still astounds me, and I’ve lived here all my life.

Vancouver's Burrard Bridge, shot on yet another cycling adventure.


It’s Vancouver’s 125th birthday today. Young city. It shows.
These days, I still love my home but I’m under no illusions how much it has changed… and how much others still seek to change it. An influx of easterners, Americans, and other foreign nationals keeps expanding this town, which these days feels 10x the size it was in my youth.
Prices are ridiculous — on everything from food to real estate. Buying here seems a fantasy on par with that dirty dream I have about Josh Hartnett.
There’s a Hollywood feel to this town that just annoys the shit out of me — the yuppies and well-moneyed folk just aren’t my bag, never have been, never will be. After working more than a decade in Yaletown, I still find myself tired of the cliches in that neighbourhood. One more poodle in sunglasses, I’m gonna fucking freak.
That that’s how it rolls here in Hollywood North.
For the few who are like me, who were raised here and are of the land, there’s a different air about the true locals. They’re more casual, relaxed, less likely to live downtown, big on being outdoorsy. Or maybe that’s just talking about my friends.
I don’t know, but today I’m thinking about how it’s really two cities. It’s the lowkey city I grew up in that was hippy central in the ’60s, the birthplace of Greenpeace, land of marijuana and forests and water and sand between the toes, grizzly writers and struggling artists.
And it’s the city of glass with urban dwellers moving in from all around the world, with kayaking through the central core and gastronomy of little compare and movies shooting on every street and schnauzers in sweaters.
How do I reconcile the two cities? I pick my locales.
The older I get, the more I realise this place will always be home, but I may not always want to make my home here… the change gets oppressive, like the weather, sometimes, but weather I can find elsewhere — and change can be eluded.
Urban life has its appeals, but the white noise of energy buzzing, endless drone of traffic, peppering of sirens, concrete as far as the eye can see, crowded transit, grumpy pedestrians, pesky beggars, greedy merchants, cramped spaces… sometimes it’s just feeling endless.
It’s like the old conversation goes — Why do you keep hitting yourself in the head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop. City life feels like that, sometimes.
Where Vancouver differs from so many cities, though, is how close escape is at hand for the non-travelling man.
On a bike and in in less than 25 minutes, I can stand under evergreens taller than downtown highrises in vast tracts for forests. I can go to the north of the city in about an hour, on transit no less, and be in the mountains with rainforests, overlooking the Pacific.
This isn’t an endless sprawling metropolis. When it comes to man versus nature in Vancouver, nature’s still winning in some areas. That’s rare in an urban setting, and I’m smart enough to appreciate that.
It’s a love-hate thing, for me, here in Vancouver. I don’t like all the changes, all the new people coming here… but I’m so proud of this city, it’s so beautiful, it deserves to be a jewel in the world’s crown, as cliche and pathetic as that sounds.
This is home. The endless rain, it’s a part of me now. Take that away and I’m emotionally lost, but too much of it and I start to drown — something I think is true of a lot of born-in-Vancouver types. The grey, it’s permissiveness in how it allows a sort of emotional dampener… good for writing, I find.
This place, it gets in you. Even if I ever leave for another part of the world, I’ll never be able to stay gone.
It’s home. It’s my rainforest. My edge of the world — concrete jungle or no.
It’s Vancouver. Happy birthday, hometown.

Common Sense Food-Shopping Adds Up at the Bank

I’m a writer. A broke-ass writer, it’ll probably say on my tombstone. This means I’m cheap at my very core.
For centuries, writers have toiled for the mere sake of writing. Usually, writers earn crap wages, supplement their calling with “jobs,” and that’s the way the cheap-eatin’ cookie crumbles.
Me, I’m okay with that. If I work too much, I may not have the time to write something brilliant (yuk-yuk-chuckle), even if it doesn’t pay, because, without the writing, I don’t maintain my craft, I don’t keep kicking wordy ass, and life gets complicated in a hurry. And, sorry, but those other jobs? Not what I enjoy. Writing, I love.
So, choices get made.
I know, there’s this whole “Buy ethical food! Organic is everything!” kick, but a lot of those folks pushing that lifestyle and those food-buying habits CLEARLY don’t live on MY budget.
And I’m a foodie, so, y’know, fuck ramen.
Sometimes I buy ethically, sometimes I don’t. In my perfect wet-dream reality where I sleep on sheets of gold, with pillows stuffed of angels’ feathers, get cocoa-butter slathered on my ass daily, and all that, I’m buying local, 100% organic small-grower foods.
In this reality, though, my happy place sings when I see a can of Suraj’s chickpeas for sale for 67 cents. Screw your expensive ethics, buddy.
At least I know what my financial reality includes, and when I do shop, I shop where my bucks stretch the furthest.
Today, I made a Twitter comment slagging the local grocery chain “Save On Foods” as being a complete joke, and was surprised how many folk replied. Half agreed, the prices are 10-20% higher than elsewhere, and for no justifiable reason — the generic brand is shit, the other stuff includes your average staples to be found anywhere. Whole Foods is similarly priced, but they have products I feel better about buying when I do know for realz that I’m overspending.
The reality is, I think a lot of people fail to note how much they’re overspending on groceries. When prices have already increased an average of 5% this year, are you sure you’re being thrifty on your food choices?
I save a lot of money just by making my own things, like homemade tzatziki. Doing the math today on the fancy house-made tzatziki sold by Whole Foods versus mine, which is made with real organic Greek yogurt, lemons (not cheap vinegar), and high-quality olive oil, I found mine costs $6.50 for a litre volume of it, versus $6.30 for a QUARTER of that at Whole Foods. And those savings take all of 20 minutes to make happen, and it lasts a month in the fridge.
Hummus, another example. I make my own beans, use more of the boiling liquid/brine for thinning for consistency, no olive oil, etcetera, and I think I make some of the best hummus you’ll ever try, again at about 30% of the purchase price for commercially-made hummus, and it keeps two weeks but can freeze for up to three months. (Meaning I’m saving 70% or more every time.)
Furthermore, when it comes to any kind of beans, and I’m using a lot for soup or something, I hydrate and cook my own — often for 75% or more off what canned beans costs, then I put extra beans in their liquid, in Ziploc bags, and freeze them for up to 3 months — which I then thaw and use as I would from a can.
Some boxed wine can actually be terrific and really saves you money (30% or more) if you’re a 1-2-glasses-a-night person. Then, save yer moolah for a nicer bottle with a splurge item on the weekend.
Whole chickens — even if you buy already-roasted ones at the Supermarket — are a huge budget-saver. While the ready-at-the-market roasted birds are usually 1.2-2 pounds, for $7.99-11.99, I can get a 5-7 pound chicken (Vancouver, visit Poultry Land on Granville Island) for $15 or so, a really good Halal / Kosher bird, and the amount of meat that comes off that is phenomenal. But, face it, that smaller, less-economical chicken can be a lifesaver when you want a healthier meal on a weeknight. Grab some salad fixings, a nice bread, and make it go further.
Whatever’s left of those roasted chickens gets frozen in small packets for salads, sandwiches, tacos, and more. Chicken bones get simmered (frozen until then) for stock, and I can make a good 20 LITRES of stock, which I then cook down to a super-concentrated 1 cup or so and freeze for a LONG time. I mix a tablespoon of “stock” with a cup of water, and then I have stock for all manner of uses — instead of paying $4 for a LITRE of the supposedly-fancy stock I think is real boring. That’s about $80 worth of “fancy” stock, plus all the chicken that can go in salads and other meals, for a total of $15 an an afternoon of work (which is really only an hour or so of labour, just a lot of waiting for shit to simmer — watch movies!).
Now and then I plan burrito factories. When you get wraps on sale, buy them, freeze them, and get ready to make wraps and burritos. You can do classic chicken-and-bean, Indian chicken curry, whatever, but I generally find I can use good food, control the calorie & nutrition count, and provide myself with up to 20 freezable lunches for under $2 each. Just make sure it’s drier stuff you’re putting in there — nothing soupy or it’ll be a mess later.
Let’s face it, the cost of living is skyrocketing. Somewhere between making ethical food choices and fiscal ones lies the perfect medium.
I buy nice local produce when I can, I save in other areas, and make compromises or plan ahead to get savings. An example of planning ahead is, by knowing a great quality produce shop I love has “customer” day on Wednesdays, I shop there and save 10% on everything… mostly quality local stuff, and that’s where I get my organic eggs, rice, and other things that never go on sale otherwise. But, THERE, I know my coconut milk costs 20% more there than another store’s prices, so even saving 10% means I’m throwing out money, when it comes to buying the coconut milk.
So, be intelligent. Buy what’s cheaper there. Buy the other stuff elsewhere. Yeah, it’s work, but it’s YOUR money and YOU had to work for it, so why not SAVE it with a little work now too?
It’s really about realizing how many products you buy on any given shopping trip and how much each little item can blow your budget. Add the difference up. Just today, one pack of pita bread was 25% more across the street. I saved $1 on that one item. Imagine how much that adds up in a single month, a single year. I live in an exorbitant city on an underwhelming income, it adds up a LOT.
Know how the saying “getting nickel-and-dimed” means a person’s pissed off at getting price-gouged? Well, we nickel-and-dime ourselves daily. Think more about everything you spend, and who sells X item for less, make some effort, and you might see a huge difference in your bank account. God knows I have.

Assaulting Employees: FUNNY! Really, Groupon?

I just don’t get it.
Maybe I’m not funny after all.
Apparently this Groupon video for unsubscribing is the cat’s meow, the bee’s knees, so funny you’ll puke. Just asked Wired, that’s what THEY think.
Me, I watch it and think “Wow, we’re just a sad, sad society.”
2,000 years ago, the Romans threw Christians to the lions. We got off on seeing people hurt and killed as entertainment.
You’d think, in the Information Age, that we would have progressed some, so that we’re not at that stage where we think it’s a blast to see people hurt or tormented. Sadly, you’re kinda wrong, it seems.
We’ve toned it down, but the gist of enjoying the humiliation and harm, that’s still there. Way to go, society. Stay classy.
Sure, all that happens in this video is a guy gets chewed out, pushed around, and a cup of presumably hot coffee (since most mostly-full cups of coffee tend to be recently acquired) thrown into his face.
I’m sure no Groupon Employees were harmed in this video, but the suggestion is that, DUDE, it’s HAH-LARRI-YUS to chuck scalding beverages into a peer’s face. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Chuckle! Giggle. “That’ll leave a mark, dude!”
Can’t we be a little better than this? Can’t the same message be achieved by dropping a bomb on a computer and saying, “Bad computer! BAD! No email for you!” or something?
Well, yes.
But this is what happens when you like to shock and sensationalize for notoriety and water-cooler cachet.
We can be better than this.
Unfortunately, some folk who write the newspapers and stuff (lookin’ at you, Wired) seem to think Groupon’s writing is awesome and their ads are terrific.
In the social media trenches, though, more people than not tell me they hate Groupon’s writing. A number of people have unsubscribed on that basis alone. I haven’t even mentioned the Groupon Superbowl debacle, or the recent controversial ad that poked fun at depression as being a great sleep aid.
Groupon’s lack of taste is ridiculous, and it’s disappointing that there isn’t a larger hue and cry about it.
Thankfully, it seems consciousness has been growing since the Superbowl ads, and I’d hope the prevalence of things like Deal By Day’s newsletter, which aggregates all your local deals into one daily 6:30am email, might increase the number of people who unsubscribe from Groupon’s daily letter, who start shopping a broader array of deals, and will send a message that it’s not okay to mock committing cruelty to people, as Groupon has done on a few occasions now.
But, hey, like I say. Maybe I’m just not funny anymore.
Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe this whole “I’m past treating people like shit for a gag” thing is some emotional midlife crisis.
Who knows.
I just know I ain’t impressed. I ain’t laughin’. And I know I ain’t alone.
Groupon’s market share is falling, for a lot of reasons. I think the media doesn’t realize how much a contingent of the public loathes Groupon’s marketing, definitely a reason many of us have walked away. With ads like these, I say it couldn’t happen to a better company. Groupon walking away from a $6 billion sale to Google? Probably the stupidest decision since putting all the marketing eggs into one Crocs-shoe basket.
Oh… and I haven’t bought a Groupon since last August. Hello, DealByDay newsletter, how YOU doin’?

Of Bloggers And Trolls: Oh, My!

Sometimes all it takes to get back into writing is to sit down and do it.
Got a comment this morning that I promptly deleted, since I’m just getting too old for that shit.
If you want to call me out objectively on anything I’ve written, step right up, my friend. Let’s have a beer and chew that chat, all right? I’m down with dissent, constructive criticism, and I don’t shy away from debating anyone I know. I call it like I see it ‘cos I’m too lazy to keep up with lies.
Love dissent and debate, in the real world. Online, who wants to type that much? Still, I try to engage.
But when the extent of your entire comment is “you’re rambling lately,” the delete bin is for you. I used to be one of these “Hey, I’ll publish every comment!” types who purport to be encouraging dialogue, but then I realised that, um, no, it’s just encouraging stupidity.
The older I get, the more I think they might’ve been onto something with eugenics. I’m very aware that, while the internet is giving much-needed voices the airplay they deserve, it’s also broadcasting some real fuckin’ tools.
Here’s the deal. If you go around commenting on posts all the time, and you don’t have a blog, and you’re always antagonistic and IN YO FACE BEYOTCH about it, then just shut the hell up. Really. Do some self-medicating, find a mountaintop guru for advice — I don’t care what you do, but just find a purpose in life, ‘cos it’s just sad, sad, sad to see what some folk get reduced to in life… commenter.
Thank god for the nice people who comment to share stories and are awesome and open and rah-rah-rah, because they’re the reason we keep pushing “publish.”
Them’s the new house rules. No more troll comments published. Dissent? Okay. Be smart and respectful and tell me I’m wronger than than wrong, I’m down with that.
Otherwise, hey, don’t like the writing? Don’t read it. Don’t like my opinions? There’s the door. There’s only 100 million blogs in the world, I’m sure you can find some carbon-copy of you out there somewhere. Good luck lookin’, Skippy.
Life’s short, man. I’m living it as me, writing what I want to say, and that’s the way the blogging cookie crumbles. If I gave a fuck about pleasing anyone in specific, I’d be checking my Google Analytics more than once a month. And probably swearing a LOT less.
Instead, I write or I don’t.
Sometimes the writing blows monkey chunks. Welcome to the “I’m a real person” thingie. Creativity isn’t a tap you turn on and it rushes out. We’re lucky to tame the whirlwind once in a storm season. Now and then: Brilliance. The rest of the time? It’s why sailboats come with motors. Sometimes you’re gonna coast a while.
And that’s blogging. A less-than-selective writing process.
You want consistency? Read a book.
You want real-time accuracy? Snapshots of a person’s life in weekly digestible bits, largely a little less censored than they ought to be, flaws hanging out for the world to see? Read a blog.
You want to be the loser that just writes negative comments without anything of value, lacking useful critiques? Don’t.
As much as many bloggers are self-involved twats, there are a lot of bloggers are ripping off Band-aids most publishers wouldn’t pay to publish. They’re being brutally real about their lives, thoughts, and worldviews.
Bloggers started this whole firestorm of openness and communication that we haven’t figured out how to use for the betterment of mankind yet — Twitter, Facebook updates, blogs, video blogging. It was all born because some dude began journaling on the web a couple decades ago.
Maybe blogging hasn’t definitively changed the world yet, maybe there are lots of twats making it look ugly to others, but I still believe in the power of blogging, the quest for individual truths, the dynamism of millions of voices saying what needs to be said if only for a dozen other people.
And when people who might be timid otherwise finally have the courage to click “publish” and start their blogs, they don’t need spineless hacks pissing on their parade.
There’s a growing call to remove “ANONYMOUS” comment ability. Having one’s name on their vitriol doesn’t make it any more valid, just not as despicable. Maybe one day I’ll remove anonymity here, too.
In the meantime, I blog on the things I think are interesting, important, or that I’m just obsessing about.
Because that’s what blogging’s for. We now return you to your scheduled silence.
I thank those of you who’ve read me (inexplicably) for years, who’ve shared your experiences and opinions. You’re awesome.

The End is Nigh: What Journalism's Selling

I graduated with a journalism degree back in the mid-90s, when this little “internet” thing was just taking off.
I don’t think any of us then could have fathomed a world where news could travel instantaneously from not just professionals, but amateurs with fancy cellphones.
Today, I wish the ethics class I had taken then was mandatory for all users of social media, and a refresher course available for all working journos. In the heat of the moment, even I can be guilty of kneejerk retweeting, because I naively believe the news sources wouldn’t DARE misinform us about something as dire as, like, nuclear meltdown.
How wrong I am.

Journalism & social media today.


Times like these, I worry it’s the blind-leading-the-blind news scenario that’s most detrimental to us.
Out there, panic. Apparently we’re all going to be stricken with radiation, then cancer and certain death as a nuclear meltdown abso-fucking-lutely will be laying waste across the world. Potassium iodide sales are skyrocketing. IN THE USA AND CANADA. Hello, there’s 7,000 kilometres minimum between our coasts, let alone travelling inland.
Get yer tinfoil hats on and stock up on duct tape, kids — North America’s in JEOPARDY!
Um, no, no meltdown, no nuclear boom. Not yet, kiddos. And, the thing is, the news is so sensationalised by just about everyone right now that I can’t even watch it. I just can’t.
Being terrified isn’t helping. And it’s insulting to the Japanese who are living with this shit within their borders.
And, furthermore, these constant death totals — the media had no business reporting deaths on day 2, 3, 4, etc. We know they’re going to escalate rapidly, and the foolishly low numbers reported early in the tragedy are just irresponsible — as if the tragedy is WORSENING because the numbers are rising.
No. It was that bad to begin with. You just had to watch it unfolding live. I’ll never forget how that felt. “Hundreds” of deaths? So naive.
I remember the low numbers reported for the first few days of the Indonesian tsunami that resulted in 230,000 deaths. I fear the numbers in Japan. I loathe the endless watch as the number creeps up with increasing speed as recovery efforts escalate. From false hope of “oh, it looked worse” to the ever-rising gloom of knowing that’s so much more than “just a number” as it gets amped up by thousands.
And, then, elsewhere in the world, Gaddhafi is effecting a brutal crackdown on his protesters, as the western leaders twiddle their thumbs. Bahrain is killing its protesting citizens, too.
CNN? Barely even knows the Arab World exists this week. And people are dying while our heads are turned away.
That is the media’s job. To prevent us from being blind to these things.
They’re failing.
They’re scaring us.
They’re reporting inside an echo chamber, putting people who don’t understand the topic in charge of educating the masses, they’re ignoring blood being shed for democracy, and none of us are the better for it.
To the few journalists who are really trying to present information without sensationalising it: Thank you.
To the rest of ’em: Get a real job.

Darkest Before Dawn, In The Aftermath

It’s relentless, the imagery from Japan. Hard to watch.
Yet watch I do.
I may never be witness to such an event again. Lord knows I hope that’s true.
Here I am in my comfortable home, mint tea steeping on my table, rain pattering the streets below as a cool spring breeze whispers past, my chimes clattering to remind me of it, as if being cooler than comfortable wasn’t the first clue.
Comfortable as I am, I’m left feeling it’s hard to be ignorant of the events over there. I’m compelled to watch, hour after hour. I’m not desensitized, but it affects me differently than most others.
Deep down inside, part of me wishes I had been a foreign correspondent. I wanted to cover disaster relief, that was my thing. Or genocide.
Humans at our best and worst — and how we’re often at our best when the world’s at its worst.
Japan, wow.
The Mayans might’ve been off a year. It’s looking like end times on that little Pacific archipelago. Nuclear meltdowns, tsunami, 5th largest quake on record, volcano threatening to blow, and even snow falling.
I mean, seriously? It’s so fucking ludicrous that there’s no WAY a writer could’ve submitted this script to a Hollywood production company and had a movie greenlit.
“Come on, buddy. Nobody would ever believe in a 9.0 earthquake followed by the worst tsunami ever followed by nuclear meltdown at not just one but several reactors, while the snow falls, right before the volcano starts to rumble? Word to the wise, curb the drugs when you’re writing. It’s hard to swallow, dude.”
SERIOUSLY, that’s how Hollywood would react. Some C-movie maker would produce it and it’d be a latenight movie on channel 212.
I can’t fathom what the Japanese feel right now. The more we learn, the more jaw-dropping the realisation is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime disaster of epic proportions on THREE levels.
And yet.
Somehow, some way, I see Japan as overcoming it all. If any country in this world is set to overcome this, it’s Japan.
They’re the only country who has ever been levelled to this extent in the past, and rebuilt. They survived a nuclear winter after an atomic bomb. They can do anything.
That experience clearly profoundly shaped the Japanese people today. When relief agents run out of water supplies, the Japanese aren’t yelling or pleading. There are no stories of looting. There is order and camaraderie wherever I hear reporters speaking.
This is a horrible, horrible moment in time.
Yes. It really is.
But I choose to think of how this can make us better. All of us. We can remember we are nothing in the face of nature. We can rededicate ourselves to each other. We can realise that, like millions in Japan, our lives can be torn apart in 10 minutes or less — so, knowing life’s impermanence, what’s really important, and why?
I watched Thursday at 9:30 pm, as the tsunami made landfall, inching over the land that it’d soon cover as much as 10 kilometres of, inland.
I saw the little cars stopping for stop lights, the tsunami roaring closer in their rearviewmirrors. I sat there with a blanket wrapped around me, wanting to scream at the TV, RUN RUN RUN, DRIVE, GO GO GO!
Today, I’m watching as most found in those cars I was likely watching, in Sendai, the same area I saw the tsunami spreading out over, are being extracted and put into body bags.
It’s hard to think anything amazing can come from that. It’s hard to fathom the technology that makes it possible for me to sit on my sofa watching, with a five-second-delay, as biblical destruction lays waste to a whole countryside. It’s hard to think we’ll be in a position to remember this event one day, celebrating those who survived as we honour the dead.
But that’s what we will do.
As a people, as a world, somehow, to make sense of all this tragedy, we will each find a way to be a little better. To be a little more aware.
Because, if we don’t, then it will indeed have been a horribly senseless tragedy and a low point in civilisation.
And I don’t want to live in that world.
But… if we become better, we love more actively, we live more strategically, we laugh more passionately… if we learn to be more aware of each other, of nature, of time’s passing, of the horrible-yet-beautiful temporal nature of everything…
I can live in that world. I can be a better human being, in that world.
And, Japan, honestly, there’s something about their society and their ethos that really does make them a model society for overcoming this adversity. I would hope, in the insanity unfolding elsewhere in the world, that  Japanese ethos and air of resilience is something we all begin striving for.
We here in the West could use some lessons in humility, community, and lawfulness. Perhaps they are to teach us some.
Meanwhile, I’m praying for Japan in my non-secular, non-religious kind of way. I’m watching with a grasp of exactly the magnitude of disaster that is ahead, but also with a longterm vision of what Japan has overcome with incredible success in the past.
And, the thing that I’m sure they’re hanging onto is, this time, they’re not alone.
This time, we didn’t do it to them, it was nature, and we’re all horrified at the unfairness of her wrath.
But the world is showing support, people are reaching out to her. Japan will rise again.

Japan's Tsunami: A Few Personal Thoughts, and a Plea for Your Donation TODAY

As I write this, my morning is bleeding away. Afternoon is nigh and I still need to work.
Across the world, however, a series tsunami alerts are either slowing being lifted, or still cautiously being heeded, in the literal wake of Japan’s terrifying 8.9 quake, only 14 hours old now.
I worked late last evening, came home, was relaxing and enjoying my first hour to myself, then suddenly my mood plummeted. I describe it as a “disturbance in the Force” — the unsettling knowledge that something has just gone horribly awry somewhere. Then the news flowed: A tsunami had already begun to land in Japan. A big one.
Only twice before have I had that feeling of a shift in “the Force.” The first was at 4:15 AM on August 6th, 1999. I was already awake when my cousin came in 20 minutes later to say my mother had died at 4:13, that the hospital had just called.
The other was at 5:55 on September 11, 2001. Only, I didn’t have cable at the time and didn’t know what had happened. The world was freakishly quiet and unsettling. Later, I arrived at work to the news, and it made sense then.
I’m not new-agey, I don’t really believe in an afterlife. I shouldn’t say I don’t believe in it, either. I don’t know what I know, or believe, because of these “Force” experiences, and a couple other reasons.
But, last night, there it was again. Boom. Pit of the stomach, bang.
I couldn’t turn the television off. My reasoning is simple — it’s easy to turn it off, walk away, but when it’s something they’re living through, I’m not watching it to be sensationalist — I’m watching it because I feel I owe it to them to be as present as I can be in their moment. That’s the human condition we all need to share. We have the power to experience — if only peripherally — our fellow man’s struggles; it’s our humanitarian obligation to be aware of them.
Thus, I was up till nearly 3am.
A friend phoned me in a panic at midnight, she being without cable or computer — like I had been in 2001 — and she had seen my update status on Facebook. “I need you to tell me what’s going on in Japan,” she said, trying to quell the understandable fear in her voice. “My brother lives there, and I don’t know the name of his town.”
Her phone call shook me, because the ripple effects of a tragedy like this has to be measured on so many levels — human, structural, financial, global.
But then it comes down to the simplest things we know — that guy who’s a friend of that woman you went to school with, he was a teacher there, they’re looking for him. Still. Washed away, they say.
Because, soon, we’ll hear stories like that.
Not today. Not yet. The scope isn’t even apparent. In three or four hours, it’ll be dawn in the land of the Rising Sun. And then we will know. From massive catastrophe, human stories will emerge. Who was taken, who was not.
But, in the end, what we’ll remember most about the fateful Sendai quake of March 11th will be images and numbers.
Today I’m cognizant of one thing… however bad this quake is, it could have been so much more horrific.
Had the quake happened under Japan? The destruction would’ve been far greater. Had the epicentre been deeper, and not remarkably shallow? Ditto. Had the tsunami first landed with full force further south? Ditto. Had the engineering not been Japan’s great obsession for decades, always thinking proactively about the future, rather than penny-pinching? Ditto.
And that will unfold for weeks, months, even years. But if any country knows how to rebuild and survive, we’ve already seen that it is Japan.
Land of the Rising Sun, indeed.

***

Today, you have one thing you need to do.
You need to donate money.
If every North American donated only $5, we’d raise close to $2 billion for relief efforts. So, do that. Donate $5. If you’re American, texting REDCROSS to 90999 will automatically donate $10 to relief efforts via adding $10 to your cell bill. If you’re Canadian, the donation is $5, and you donate that specifically to Japan relief efforts by the Red Cross in texting ASIA to 30333.
Why should you donate to Red Cross? Because cholera, dysentery, search-and-rescue efforts, these all need IMMEDIATE on-the-ground resources — and the Red Cross is best positioned for First Response efforts.
Forget about clothes and belongings — it will take weeks to get that stuff to them, and it costs more to ship than giving donations and letting them locally source the needed supplies.
Today, donate money. Anything. Don’t wait. Every penny you donate TODAY is a penny the Red Cross knows it can allocate TODAY. More is more, and sooner is best.
Here in Vancouver, Canada, we feel especially empathetic to Japan. They’re a Pacific Rim sister nation, they’re a trading partner, they’re a cultural influence on the streets of Vancouver, and where many of our landed immigrants hail from. Today, we watch with bated breath and broken hearts as we see the destruction unfold.
Please, donate.

The New Aging Gracefully

I think it’s oddly intriguing I was inspired to write about aging gracefully on International Women’s Day, since there ain’t exactly a lot of women modelling how to age gracefully these days. Liposuction and tucks and Botox, oh my! But there you have it. Get over yourselves, girls.
I like getting older. I like it even better when I get told all the time that people think I’m 6-10 years younger than I am.
Probably from spending all those years protecting myself from the elements — sheltered on cushy sofas. No wind-battered face here, friends!
And now that I live much better than I did for a decade there, I guess that shows too.

Hallmark card character I LOVE.


But, aging? Yeah. I like it.
The big four-oh is still 2.4 years away, but I’m looking forward to aging and letting go of even more of the bullshit that mires one’s younger life.
I’m in a strange position in my life right now. Five years ago, I’d have been having a borderline nervous breakdown. Now I’m planning a dinner party for tomorrow, chilling, and erring on the side of faith.
There’s the old saying, “This too shall pass,” and I think around 40 is when we start really believing in what we can overcome and/or achieve. It varies, of course, depending on the crash-course life’s had each of us on.
Me, I got the lesson of “life’s tough, get a helmet” in the last decade, and now I feel like I’ve had the dress rehearsal, and I simply know at my core that every hard time I face is on a limited-life plan, and I’m more than likely to be the victor at the end of it.
“Face-palm and carry on,” as the new saying goes — the NEW Guide to Aging Gracefully.
It really comes down, I guess, to whether or not we’re willing to examine each lame-ass time for its growth lessons. I do. I can’t possibly imagine going through ALL that shit for NOTHING, man. If I’ve learned from it? Fucking A. I’ll take THAT for a dollar, Alex.
I still have more Zen Master schoolin’ to do. After all, I’m not even 40. I’m not nearly as chill as I’d like to be, but I’m surprising myself. Sure, I occasionally want to kill asshats on transit, but that’s not really indicative of me being high-stress, it’s more indicative of the erosion of intelligent life on Earth. I’m tryin’, man.
Honestly, I’m glad I was laid-off long-term. I’m glad I went through a lot of the shit in the last year that I have. I’m glad I had pneumonia. I’ve learned SO much about myself in the last year.
Was it hard? Yes. I even became depressed in the fall. (Not anymore.) I’m sort of back where I started, in a lot of ways, but as a completely different person. It grew a quiet confidence in me, and things I’m doing now will really amp that up. It’s confidence I had none of last spring, considering I was already in a depression and a financial hole before I even lost my job.
If the whole Malcolm Gladwell 10,000-hours-to-master thing is for real, then the 5 years since my last unemployment has been mind-bogglingly insightful. My god, the lessons we learn through our trials.
Staying employed and stable and never taking risks, well, that might make for a nice comfortable life, but I guarantee you, you’ll be learning a fraction of what it is you’re capable of in life.
Age. With it comes that experience you just can’t buy. And when you’re 20 and you think “OH! Why don’t they take me seriously? Why don’t they think I understand?” well, it’s because they feel exactly like I do — that you can’t possibly know all the things that’ll bloom in you over the next two decades.
I like to sit back sometimes and reflect on who I was at specific ages, how full of shit I was, compared to me now.
And then I like to think of how I’ll feel about the same question in another two decades. How I’ll chuckle dryly at the age of 57 — the same age my mother was at her death — and think how I couldn’t possibly have known all that would come my way, how much life could pack in an hour, a day, a week, never mind a decade, and how much I’d learn about myself and the world around me as I lived through all of that.
That’s the beauty of the unknown.
And the beauty of aging is, we better know the vastness of that unknown, but we also come to learn the vastness of human potential. We see more. We understand.
Or, some of us do.

The Evolution of a DeClutterer's Life

So, hi! I left you hanging with that whole letter-to-HR-folk thing last week, huh? Quel drama!
I was told three weeks ago I probably had three weeks of full-time work. Now it’s looking like I have work until closer to June, perhaps beyond.

Decluttering, by Paul Foreman


Since I started having steady work, I’ve been of the “things are going to get busy” mindset for a while, and it’s been pedal to the metal around the homestead, trying to get my place to what I wanted, losing more clutter, finding more clarity, all of that–in between job-hunting.
It’s been a lot of work. Since I’m getting a lot of things bought I’ve not had funds for, I’m opting out of the social life thing and prioritising my spending — which is giving me more time to focus on what my life needs on all levels.
I’m now doing the little things I never had time to sort — junk drawers, things like that. Everything is getting resolved, everything is being purged through. But all that’s left is my work desk and utility drawers. That’s pretty much it. I’ll probably have to stay on top of the purging thing and spend a day every couple of months, but I really like the downscaled life I’m starting to live.
With less unnecessary stuff around me, I have a clearer vision of what I need to do.
Also, the return of work — daily work that involves getting downtown and organizing my life around — has made exercise easier to do. I’ve slowly been getting more regular about workouts, and today was a return to my old rehab routine I used to do six days a week. Five days is the goal now.
I miss a working routine. I used to work out and write daily, as well as work. I lost weight easier on the job, and gained it while unemployed.
All the things I’ve been doing — tearing my house apart, organizing, planning, getting a routine in place — are things I did in the spring of 2008, before I lost 50 pounds.
And I know it SOUNDS insane to others who go “Well, geez, exactly what all are ya doin’ that it’s taking so long to get it all done?”
In short? Everything. Every damned thing I’m doing, I do to the best of my ability these days, whether it’s sorting a drawer or organizing books, because the better I do it now, the longer I can go without doing it again. I’m hoping this keeps me in order until October.
My goals are more multifaceted than just weight-loss, these days. I have a lot on my plate — a whole lot of things I’m working toward, and most of them I’m keeping to myself for the time being. What it takes is daily focus, total routine. What it takes is a Plan, Stan. I’m getting there.
I think the act of having done all this purging of late is indicative of the mindset I’ve got. It takes a long time, sometimes, to realize that knowing what you want is sometimes more about knowing what it is that you don’t want.
I know now what I don’t want. Piece by piece, item by item, line by line, I know exactly what I don’t want. I know who I don’t want. Where I don’t want to go.
So, that narrows it down. I know what I don’t want. Better yet, I’m getting it the fuck away from me.
Slowly, what I do want is coming into focus. And I know what I need to get done, obligation-wise, and what my limits are outside of that.
And that’s where it starts.
Where it goes, well, that’s the fun part. With continued focus and continuing to set new accomplishments (and getting ’em done) on a weekly basis, I suspect good things will come.
With that, it’s on with my week. And folding what’s in the dryer. Have a good one, minions.