I’m starting to realize how difficult it is to carve out a new future when you’re surrounded with your past. This blog, for me, is linked more to my past than it is my future, so I have a hard time sometimes viewing my “blogging duties” in a more positive light. I’m trying to change that, I suppose, but like I say, it’s a struggle.

I picked up a copy of Eat, Pray, Love yesterday, by Elizabeth Gilbert. The reckoning the author faced with her own life, I think, is similar to the one I’m beginning in my own and it would be nice to read about what comes out the other side when one drastically reinvents themself and their life. I may find myself exasperated with how slowly the change unfolds when I’m caught in the midst of it all, but that’s the way it goes when you’re changing your world while still living within it. (Unlike Gilbert, who had the means and time to run away and travel in the self-discovery phase.)

It’s difficult to reach that point where you understand what you don’t like about yourself, what you’re not happy about, and you become cognizant of how much that dissatisfaction poisons everything around you. I’m realizing how apparent my unhappiness has been to those around me, and for how long, and it’s disconcerting to come to terms with just how much I’ve been projecting, and how many questions that coming to terms really answers in my life… some things I’m just not comfortable exploring on the page just yet. I know my heart panged when I heard Gilbert say how stunned she was that apparently Julia Robert’s playing her in the movie of her book — the darling actress everyone loves is going to play the author when the author didn’t even like who she was back then. I’m realizing lately how much I don’t like who I’ve been, and how much I believe in my ability to change that, now that I’m aware.

I feel like I’m making the ripples that need to happen before the waves of change come crashing in. Ripples… ripples are good. In every little area of my life, I’m beginning to exact change. Small change. But I’m seeing the dividends already. This yoga thing, for instance, is something I’ve wanted to do a long time, but for incredibly silly reasons, mostly insecurities and fear, just never made happen. It’s not really the actions of yoga that I’m so after… I do a lot of stretching out of necessity, and it’s not that wildly different, but yoga offers that mentality of being entirely in the now — focusing on how everything affects the body and knowing precisely what it is you feel at all times. It’s very much about being indoctrinated into the “mind over matter” power. I need that discipline, and after only three days, I’m already gaining a greater consciousness… something I haven’t been dialed into for a little too long.

It’s funny, you know, because it calls to mind back when I was teaching a couple friends to drive stickshift/standard transmission when I was 19 or 20. I remember saying, “It’s just like sex. Whatever you do, it has a consequence, and if you’re lucky, it’ll like what you’ve done…” and explained how you needed to be at one with the engine and you’d start to tell just by the feel of the car’s vibrations and the sound of the engine when it was time to shift — you needed no gauges, you just needed to feel when it was right. Just like sex.

I have terrific intuition in life, and I have a great sense of flow and timing, and believe you me, I can drive stick. For some reason, though, I use those qualities everywhere but within my own day-to-day life. I don’t live by the same principles that I act with, if that makes any sense at all. It’s your typical female conundrum, I suppose… doing more and better for others than we do for ourselves, as if we’re somehow going to be pegged as selfish bitches for acting on our own behalf.

I’ve been having this whole “I’ve got to give back!” mentality in my life, lately, thinking I live so selfishly that I need to begin projecting outward more in ways that benefit others. Then I realized, I’m not living as selfishly as I should be. I’m on the cusp of it, but I really need to go there and really do things for me, for the right reasons, and not because I’m feeling compelled to by whatever societal constraints being imposed on me. And when it comes to really celebrating the self, I wanna finally start being the “rockstar” I know I am. Deep down inside, that rockstar exists, and now I’m compelled to make that the external me… and that’s gonna take some quality selfishness to pull off. I’m at one, now, with being a little more selfish… provided I’m doing it right.

Elizabeth Gilbert, that author of the book mentioned up there, she’s on Oprah talking about her “bathroom floor” moment, that moment when the skies part and you realize how unhappy your life is making you, and the lightbulb flashes and you realize also that, “I don’t need to take this shit. I can do better. I have control.” I dunno. Sometimes I feel like the last 14 months of my life has been that bathroom floor moment, but that’s definitely overstating things.

I guess, for a while there, I allowed myself to feel victimized by difficulties in life. It’s easy to feel like someone up there’s ganging up on you, like hardships are falling your way more often than they are others. I’ve tried hard to think about it in a few ways: One, it’s a test of my mettle. How strong am I? Well, I tell ya, now I really know. Two, I’m experiencing it so that when my friends and family have to endure similar challenges, I can be there to support them and offer a voice of experience. Three, if I’m in this life to live, then I’d better just do that… so bring it on. And then I falter and just feel sorry for myself again, because, hey, I’m human, and sometimes the present seems so overwhelming and it’s easy forget that today’s the tomorrow we were hoping for yesterday, right?

I’m 34 now. I feel like I’m just getting started on a pretty great path. It feels like it’s taking forever to get anywhere of consequence, but I know I have the rest of my life to reap the rewards of everything I sow now. I’m setting the stage for a play of experience that will last me the remainder of my days… so I’m not in the rush I thought I was. Still… getting there after being here is going to be a terrific party to be at.

Unfortunately, we live in a society of instant gratitude. We’re a microwave, flash-cooking society that just doesn’t grasp taking the scenic route to get anywhere, and I’m sometimes guilty of that, being a pretty impatient gal. Trouble is, most of the really great places can’t be gotten to on main paths. Taking the long way, waiting and struggling, is often the only way we really get anything of value.

I’m trying to remember that these days as I work a little more on each and every day in the quest to make myself into a Better, Faster, Stronger, Smarter, Sexier, More Grounded, More Aware Steff… in New, Improved Flavours… or your money back!

But it’s hard, man. It’s hard. I’m reminding myself that, in Chinese superstition, the number 8 signifies abundance. We’re days away from 2008… the year I have declared to be my personal year of abundance, the year when all my struggles begin to bear the fruit that are now just blossoms. So, I’m going to enjoy my struggle while it lasts, because it’s times like these I know have incredible outcomes. Trouble is, I was always that kid who opened all her Christmas presents in advance and carefully taped them back up… waiting for reward’s not my strong suit. 🙂

Technology and new scientific methods are causing big rewrites to the numbers long associated with AIDS. America’s CDC had stated they saw some 40,000 new cases of infection every year.

Turns out, a new method of testing blood and, in essence, a way of “aging” infections present, means the folks in white coats at the CDC now believe between 55,000 and 60,000 new cases are amassing each year, not 40,000.

The big thing to remember there is that more than half of the people infected with HIV/AIDS don’t actually know they are. They’re still out there spreading things, unknowingly.Getting tested is a nervewracking thing. I hate the experience, personally, but I usually play things pretty smart. A friend of a friend didn’t, and now has AIDS. At least he got his regular test and found out early that he’d paid the price for a night of ignorant passion.

The CDC also says the amount of new AIDS cases amongst gay men has shot up some 13%. Here in Canada they’re reporting a rise in infections with teenaged girls. It continues to rise in African Americans, too, both men and women. Europe has just announced that AIDS is on the rise all over that continent. China’s acknowledging a problem now, too.

Eastern Europe, for instance, says they’ve seen a 150% rise in AIDS cases. Since 2001. Six years. France has one of the highest levels of AIDS in Europe, and an AIDS advocacy proponent there says, “It was a mistake to think that the epidemic was [just] striking the high-risk groups. There are heterosexuals that have sex [with their own gender] and drug users that have sex. So it was a mistake to think it only concerned one part of the population.”

It fucking baffles me. All the fight against AIDS needs is condoms. Abstinence is a nice little pipe dream all the religious types might want to preach about, and abstinence is the only guarantee you can have that you’re not at risk. Condoms certainly help.

Condoms break, though, and people lie. You want to believe the person you’re about to fuck or currently are fucking is telling the truth, but you’re just being naive. People lie. All the time. About everything from how they’re feeling to whether they’re carrying a disease they know will send you scurrying from the bed they’re about to fuck you in. Who’s kidding who?

I just don’t understand why we’re still having discussions about whether or not to teach how to practice safer sex. I don’t believe in calling it “safe sex”, even though I fall into that habit too often for my liking. It’s never safer. There’s always an element of risk. I know that. I’m fine with that, because I know I’m pretty selective. But my judgment is far from perfect.

And, really, come on. You insist on a condom, the person you want to fuck says no? Aren’t they the LAST person you then should fuck without one? Isn’t that just common fucking sense, literally? If they refuse to wear one with you, they probably won’t wear one with anyone, and that’s how diseases spread. One guy tried the excuse of “Well, I’ve been in a relationship the last 13 years. Even the sight of a condom will kill my erection.”

Boo-fucking-hoo. Tough luck. As the stupid cliche goes, no glove, no love, right?

My acquaintance with AIDS got it from one random night when alcohol was involved and they didn’t grab a condom. It was that guy that infected him.

I mean, it goes as far as, if you even suspect your spouse/partner is sleeping around, and you’re not using a condom with them, you’re practicing at-risk behaviour.

These religious types may have missed out on the passion and euphoria genes, but the rest of us know how good sex and romance feels, we know how easy it is to just go ahead and have that orgasm. The trouble is, more and more youths are ignorant about all this… and the numbers are starting to prove it.

AIDS is decimating Africa. Who’s to say Africa’s not just the canary in the coalmine. I would think we’d need all the vigilance we can muster to ensure that not become the case. Sex education is real fuckin’ imperative these days. Explicit, unpretty education, and a good luck at what dying from AIDS actually entails wouldn’t hurt. The lesions, the wasting away, the endless pain and failing of organs.

Every now and then I have this little fear that some decade down the line they’re going to point to this moment on the timeline and decree that all the politicians who were too fucking squeamish to really deal with this problem were guilty of crimes against humanity. AIDS is one of the only diseases that can be fought with education… that we’re failing to do that is nothing less than a crime against humanity. On that, time’s gonna tell.

I’m a big believer in starting with the little stuff and just going with it when it comes to writing because, like building a snowman, it can be surprising as hell when you see it take shape.

I was doing just that just now, writing about the weather and the fact that I’m all cushy, blogging from my big-ass 1830s camelback armchair on my laptop for the first time ever… had it for more than three years and only finally afforded wireless hardware this weekend. Money’s been that tight for that long.

‘Course, I never had the best of priorities, either, but let’s face it, I lost a lot of work over several years, what with several accidents, and insane amounts of illness and injury, and I’ve just never had throwaway money or cash for indulgences.

Until now. Now things are starting to change.

See, I had gotten to this point just now, writing, and it hit me that my (recent/past) lack of money is what’s been keeping me from trying to date. Sure, you scoff when I say “well, I have nothing to wear” but you fail to realize I’m telling the truth. No matter what I do of late, I feel like a loser, and I know there’s only one reason for that: I hate my clothes.

Everything either doesn’t fit right — too tight, too loose — or else it’s thread-bare or torn or about to come apart, and it shows. I’m not saying I need to be wearing Prada, but I need to not look like I just don’t care… and right now, it looks like I don’t care. The truth, however, is anything but.

If there is nothing else I am, I am proud. I’m a fierce, strong, fighting woman, and I’ve got attitude, edge, and personality. I am not a woman who should look frumpy, nor dishevelled, nor out-of-size.

I deserve to match externally to what I feel internally. It isn’t that I don’t have taste, I just haven’t had money, and I’ve not really bought anything new, now, for about 2 years. All I’ve gotten of late is used shit that I must’ve been smoking crack to buy because I can’t get how I thought it worked. One shirt’s like 3 times too big for me, but I fucking love the colour. I’ll never, ever wear it, of course, because a good breeze might pick me up and launch me into a America’s Cup-calibre sail across the Pacific, but I’m making a mental note that wine apparently doesn’t just taste good, but looks divine on me.

I have whittled my wardrobe down over the the last three or four years and there’s been more and more gradually turfed until I got down to what was the essential to keep. Now it’s imperative I replace it all because it’s been in heavy rotation longer than I thought it would be.

But I’m seriously at that point now where I feel I look so awful in everything I wear that I just don’t want to go out anymore. I don’t want to date or meet people. I don’t want to be social. The first day I bought my new coat and pants, I ‘dressed up’ and went for a walk and coffee for no other reason than to be seen. I do like to be admired. I want to feel sexy. I know I can work it. I wanna work it. Lemme work it!

I mean, I had this epiphany moment when I watched “What Not To Wear” on the weekend and Stacy London said something to the effect that it was a terrible thing that someone should allow their clothes to hinder them from experiencing life.

…clothes! Wow. Yes, what a terrible, stupid, dumb thing.

And sitting here, now, in this big-ass chair on a Wet Coast night as I listen to the splish-splash of cars cutting through cascading rivers of rain and snow on the street nearby, I’m filled with a weird contentment that hits me as this — this simple act of being able to type on a laptop, online, in my living room in the ambient silence — is the actualization of one of the goals I’ve had for three or more years now.

And it’s just a start. I can’t wait to see what happens when I can buy a few new pieces of clothing that make me feel like the cool fucking chick I know I am inside. It’s been a long time, and the woman I am now is a whole world away from the girl I was before this endless parade of adversity came beating down my door. I’ll be dressing a woman this time. No girl anymore. And someone who’s got her insecurities in check, and now wants to show off areas she’d always hidden. I’m ready, man.

It’s nice to be ending a year with such a feeling of optism about where the next year might be headed. I’ve no idea what the map heading says, but I think I’ll like the direction.

Now… time to head off in the rain-snow mix and help my friend decorate his Christmas tree as we smoke some ganja and eat a ridiculous amount of tacos before we watch Heroes. May you find a little optimism in your night, too, minions. Have a kick-ass Tuesday.

I’m a film geek.

I once mentioned to a colleague (keep in mind I work in the film industry) that I had finally bit the bullet and seen Casablanca, which I had the good sense to see (and have since loved) at an independent film house that ran in first-run in the Dirty ’30s. He asked me if I’d taken film appreciation in school and my retort was, “No, all my sentiments are my own.”

But I love movies. I just thought I was well-versed but I went out with another geek last year who more or less proved to me that I’ve seen 80 or 90% of all the “best movies ever made”. And a freakish amount of ’em on-screen, too.

So… it’s not that often that I a) don’t hear about a movie or/and b) get surprised by its content or performance. I’m pretty on the ball about flicks and there’s few I’m not at least a little aware of. Geek that I am and all.

But tonight, I got surprised. I have just discovered a terrific flick for both men and women. For women, it’ll be a “my time of the month” classic or something they watch to remind them of their ability to kick ass and take names. For men, it’ll be a reminder of all the reasons women are worth going through the annoyance of knowing. Or something.

It’s called Westward the Women, and it’s from 1951, written by Frank Capra, so of course I had to like it. Capra’s film gold. I mean, he has his own adjective! Capra-esque! Like Hitchcockian. Pretty rare air there.

Anyhow. A Californian town is in its birthing stage. Now it’s just a valley populated by Roy Whitman and his 100+ pioneering men. The only thing missing from this West Coast paradise in the 1800s is wimmin folk. Whitman, in all his “I staked me Utopia, then built it” moral superiority, decreed that these women would be treated like the saints they were to give up their lives and travel west on the promise of a good life in a good land on a good man’s good stretch.

It’s about how 150 women come to decide to make the wagon train trip some 1, 500 miles across the American landscape, and the really amazing tragedies and trials that befall them on their journey. They’re told in the outset that some third of them would die en route as the wagons crossed some of the toughest land any man — and definitely woman — had ever seen.

It’s smart, it’s funny, it’s historically accurate if not a little cheesy, yet witty, well-shot, well-cast, and very, very watchable.

Now, I’ll confess I like the occasional Western. Loved the remake of 3:10 to Yuma bust still can’t get over how well Christian Bale ran for a guy with a wooden leg. Well done, Christian.

This, however, didn’t feel like a Western. It’s just a crazy-assed look at what happened from time to time in the Old West, filled with tragedies and touching stories and funny humour, and very little pandering to women. Tough broads who were women throughout but encountered some great adversity.

I lived up in the Yukon and knew a great story I should rewrite for here, about Diamond Tooth Gertie, who made the death-defying voyage from Seattle to the Yukon for the Gold Rush, succeeded where some 90% of the men failed, in getting to the Gold Rush after all. It filled me with great admiration, just imagining some of the things women like that had to overcome when crossing a continent on foot and wagon.

To see that heroism depicted in a movie like that, where the fact is that dying en route to the West wasn’t entirely uncommon in the 1800s, a century and a bit before 4×4 would be invented. Two words: Wooden wheels.

For something entirely different, go for Westward the Women. Before butch knew what butch was.

And, hey, look at the coinkydink of reviewing a pioneering movie on American Thanksgiving. Happy Yankee Thankie Day, Americans. May all your turkeys be good turkeys. And god stuff us every one.

I’m just rushing out for breakfast but I wanted to check in quickly. I’m in ‘adjusting to world of pain’ mode right now as I’m ramping my fitness up by several degreees, thanks to learning that my knee’s finally able to handle an elliptical trainer at the gym. (I’ve blown it out a few times and “unstable” is the watchword. Elliptical trainers always had my kneecap clicking and wiggling by 5 minutes in. Did 10 minutes the first time ever last Friday and 25 minutes yesterday. Yay!)

And now my horrible right shoulder’s in its own world of pain, but whatever. I’ll swim tonight and then I’ll hurt everywhere, so the shoulder won’t seem so bad. 🙂

Anyhow. I don’t have a lot to say… when I’m trying to focus on one area of my life, it makes the other areas get a little neglected, like blogging. Blogging’s really suffering though because I’m avoiding writing the probing look at How I Got Fat that I’ve promised to write. I really want to get into the emotional issues behind being overweight, because I’m real fuckin’ tired of hearing all these “fat’s catchable” or “fat is genetic” or whatever other new “shocking discovery” du jours I’ve been seeing on the news lately. Simple fact is, if you’re fat, there’s got to be areas of your life you’re not happy with, and food’s filling the void. And you’re probably ignorant about how to eat properly. I really believe that, but I’m apparently in the minority, and because I’m fat myself, I’m probably viewed as a bit traitorial.

Whatever.

Speaking of fat, I wrote this rant yesterday and can’t tell you what provoked it because of non-disclosure agreements and all, but I can share the rant. 🙂 Enjoy.

If I have to see one more movie where the “fat” bad guy just sits around chewing things, his brain entirely disconnected to his mouth, and completely lacking of any kind of grace or dexterity at all, I’m gonna beat someone to death with a goddamned 48-pack of donuts.

Just fucking try me.

I mean, what, you hit 30% body fat and your brain suddenly ceases to function and bubbles instead with sugar-filled foam and vapidity?

And the fat guys always JUST eat. They’re always CSI exhibits of every fucking meal they’ve eaten in the last week. Yep, barbecue sauce crusted in the left quadrant of the (of course) horizontally-striped shirt, there’s cheese sticking out of their pocket, a donut’s surgically attached to the left hand until the guy starts chewing on his knuckles. Whenever he talks, his mouth is spewing food. When he chews, he smacks and sucks and slurps, as if making extra noise somehow conjures cosmic bonus points of tasty goodness.

I mean, how is the cliche fat-guy-who-talks-while-chewing-and-never-stops-eating at all funny anymore? Hasn’t this joke been beaten into fucking submission?

Yep, I can hear the joke over there now — crying out for help and whining about its inadequacy as it languishes in dark corners of unexplored creativity.

And what about the reality that most morbidly obese people tend to do their eating in secrecy because they’re so fucking tired of being stared at and mocked and humiliated? Like they just sit there pounding back their betcha-can’t-eat-just-one Lay’s potato chips or whatever, allowing themselves to be further humiliated and pointed at. Yeah, that’s right, they’re doing their bit to keep the rest of the world entertained as they sit there willfully eating everything ever placed upon this good Earth, oblivious to the snickers and derision being enjoyed by the onlookers in the food court.

Yeah. I’m getting really, really tired of seeing this stupid-ass writing passing as something witty and funny. Come on, writers. Cough up a fucking quarter and send away for that Cracker Jacks “how to be a writer in 17 easy steps” toolkit or something, wouldja?

Get a fuckin’ real job. Cliche-spewing dumb-ass hacks. No paycheques for you.

I’ll have to go back and find this email to share with you all, but a longtime reader sent me a deeply personal email in which he more or less explored the realms of self-loathing as he told me about how he’s gone around fucking up the lovelife of this girl he cares passionately about. His question, more or less, was, what do you do when all you can do is hurt the one you love?

There is a young woman whom I’ve known for over three years, whose smile alone melts away every fear and worry I have. …I knew ahead of time, based on past experiences, that I break stuff. In this case, I was subconsciously sabotaging their relationship. …It’s been quiet and awkward between us ever since. We will stumble upon one another, but the hugs have stopped. The smile is still there, but I don’t know if it’s sincere anymore.

…And this is what I’ve done. For three-and-half years, I have hurt this girl. I have, directly or indirectly, negatively impacted her life. In a way, I want to walk away, hoping, feeling, that maybe, it would be the best for her. …Yet I am deathly afraid of losing her. I’ve come to terms with losing her to another man, but the idea of her being out of my life entirely… scares me. How can you love someone so much that it tears you apart from the inside when they’re unhappy and yet you continually find ways to hurt them?

Well, there you have it. See, he’s hating himself like he’s some kind of monster brought forth from Dante’s Inferno or something. To protect his identity, I’m omitting more specific infractions. But tsk, reader. Tsk.

I wrote him back and just cleared up any misconceptions that I’d be writing something sunshiny in his favour.

Thing is, I can’t go all medieval on his ass, either.

See, love makes beasts of us all, goes some old saying. Let’s update it. You know, a little more politically correct and equality-minded. It should say, “beasts, bastards, and bitches”.

After all, every single one of us has done something duplicitous or slightly unkind in love. Who’s kidding who? One of those dirty little secrets we all keep tucked away in hidden pockets. Me, I’ve occasionally been duplicitous, manipulative, and unkind. I’m human. I have the “fuckin’ up” gene built-in and far too easily accessible, thank you very kindly. Hell, I think the gene’s on auto-pilot at this point. Fuck, man. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, like the Jesus guy once said. We do dumb, even bad shit, but then we learn to do better. You’re done the doing bit, now it’s time to do the learning bit.

Yeah, you’re being an asshole, reader. You are. You deserve a moralistic kick up the ass, but that’s just stating the obvious. We’re better than obvious. We’re intelligent.

So, whilst being an asshole, you’re also being an incurable romantic. And a really lousy little coward. Actually, a really successful coward. Full marks for you, friend.

I too have been a coward sometimes. It is what it is. Easy, is what it is. Easier to somehow never rise up and face the challenge, and decide “It’s better to know now how she feels, and then I can move on… either way.” The irony is, living in fear’s so fucking hard, and it makes us all become the people we’d sooner not be. But we are. When we deceive ourselves in that way, we’re those bitter, sad, underwhelmed people not chasing after what they really want. And it’s all because we’re too cowardly to face the truth and learn a little.

We would rather live with the possibility of there being that chance but living under the shadow of doubt and worry, while we play our little manipulation of keeping them close without having to come clean… because to find out definitively that they’re not interested in us would be devastating.

To know means having the power to move on, either way. You’ve simply never, ever admitted to how you felt, and instead sought to manipulate her life. If you couldn’t have her, then she shouldn’t be able to be happy with someone else. It’s almost like a Hollywood cliche. Dying villain-hero, raging against the world, “If I can’t have you– nobody can!” But you got weird and started insinuating yourself into situations you shouldn’t have entered, and as such are now dealing with The Wrath of Scorned Lovelorn Woman.

Yeah, good one. But you know this. I don’t know, what do you want me to say? You stop hurting people if they matter to you. We all hurt people we love. Most of us don’t do it as a matter of course, though. It just happens sometimes. You think you love her? Stop hurting her. Be honest. Tell her how you feel. Tell her you’ve been an ass. Tell her. Beg her forgiveness. A thousand apologies. And a good gift never hurts. Start the communication and see where it goes. Don’t be surprised if there’s a “Fuck you” somewhere in the mix, but there’s always the chance that the cosmos will align in your favour and love’s swift arrow pierces her offended exterior. There’s always chance. I believe in chance.

But the truth is, you continue doing what you’re doing and you will find yourself both without a lover, and without a friend. That’s almost a certainty. End it, be a man, and there’s hope something better can come of it.

Now go say 10 Haily Marys like you really mean it.

Okay, I just need to vent: What the fuck is wrong with Nancy Grace anyhow? Like, it’s not enough that news is news… there’s always that stupid fucking card at the bottom of the screen that reads– no, not “news”, but “URGENT NEWS”. Yes, all caps.

Jesus. And it’s of a story about an 82-year-old grandma who got Tasered. Shitty, hard to believe, moronic, and a sign of the times, but is it really “urgent”? Does a huge massing of concerned citizens mean she’ll somehow become unTasered? Is there a pressing concern for society at large? Like, “Ohmigod, I gotta get home before I’m Tasered!” Something like that?

Well, then it’s not “urgent”, then, is it? No. It’s really just another day of news. Not that sexy, then, is it? But news hardly needs to be sexy. It just needs to be new. Kinda is what it is. Funny how much the media manages to complicate that. If it’s new, tell us. If it’s important, tell us. But don’t fucking sell it to us. Just report the facts. Just the facts, ma’am. Like the story goes.

Anyhow, just to clear it up for the thick-headed types who can’t separate my opinion from the meat of that sad-ass story: I am completely opposed to the Tasering of 82-year-old women. I mean, what kinda cop are you that you can’t settle an 82-year-old woman down without having to risk inducing heart attacks? Gimme an M! Gimme an U! An S! And gimme a C! An L! And an E! Fuck, man. Get a real job, right? So, BOO and HISS to the dumb fuckin’ cops, but Nancy Grace deserves dollop of common sense– no, brains, period– as well. Urgent my ass.

And people wonder why the public in the know is getting their news from the ‘net.

I’m going to sound like one of those people you hate if I complain right now, because I’ll be honest, I’m still down on the weight. I’ve gone down to 17lbs off this fat ass of mine this month, but I’m disappointed. I thought I could’ve had a far better week. I mean, I’ve eaten chips, like a whole bag, too, and there’ve been those little chocolate bars around… Sigh.

It’s not about the number, it’s really not. If it was, I could sit here smugly and just go “I’m down 17 pounds! Nyah-nyah!” but it’s not about the number. It’s about being healthy. It’s about not eating shit like chips. I know I’m gonna falter here and there, but I’ve faltered too many times this week, AND I’m not eating quite as healthily as I want to be.

However, I’m not going to continue riding my own ass about this. I’m going to let myself off the hook and go “well, thank god for the number!” A little easier to make lemonade out of this, right? But I gotta wonder how much I might’ve lost had I been as healthy as I wanted to be this week. PLUS, I’ve not been exercising. I’m actually pretty pissed at myself for that.

So, there’s next week. Good. And no candy-focused holiday to fuck me up, right? Whew. Oh, and it’s been my time of the month, too. That always helps. Okay, so it’s through no small miracles that I’m still down another 3 or so pounds this week. That no-butter thing is pretty huge. I’m certainly more conscious of what other fats I have, and I’m pretty sparing on it.

I can improve. I will. This is a little reckonings of sort. And sometimes I plan to be bad on purpose, like the popcorn I’m intending to have at the theatre tonight. Die Hard and no popcorn? Good god! The travesties!

But dinner last night was oatmeal and fruit. Breakfast this morning, more of the same, with a side of vitamins. Lunch will be suitably restrained. Tomorrow I do the fun hike up and down from Wreck Beach a couple times, and expect a world of hurt on Sunday.

Tomorrow night I have a hot date with my nephew. Fun. The kid’s staying over for a night of movies, a late sleep-in, and hanging with the aunt on Sunday. It’s been about two or three years since he’s stayed over… but he used to light up like a million watts when he’d show up for sleepovers at auntie’s, and then the divorce/separation began with his folks, and now the only sleepovers he gets are at Dad’s. Add to that that he’s officially a pre-teen at 11, and I’m kind of dreading it and stoked at the same time — I’m so out of touch with hanging out with him that I’m nervous my cachet’s going to drop as he gets exposed to the inevitable truth: I’m just another grownup. But we’ll see.

I still have something on my side that his parents don’t have, though, and that’s punk rock. You never know. That could be just the ticket. 🙂

Have a great weekend, people.

…but do you know where your drink is?

The Vancouver Police have just issued a warning for people in the club scene to be more vigilant not only about their drinks, but their drugs, and, yes, their bodies, too.

This is important for anyone of clubbing age to read, regardless of your town, and for parents to get informed about, so as to enlighten yer kiddies. This may come off as preachy, but whatever. I know whereof I speak, so ‘scuse me while I step upon my soapbox.

It turns out that the local gangs in our fair city have been getting better and better entwined in the club scenes, including all-ages parties, and are getting their drugs out there with more success than ever before.

Seems lots of folks are trying glam drugs like “Special K” (ketamine, aka horse tranquilizers used by vets to, yes, knock out horses… sure you want that in ya?), ecstacy, crystal meth (made with lovely things like sulphur, Drano, etc) that they either a) don’t understand the power of, or b) aren’t watching the dosages properly, or c) have no clue about the potential damage they’re doing.

As a result, the number of sexual assaults seems to be skyrocketing of late. The cops say more and more club-related sexual assaults are being reported every single weekend, and with Halloween being one of the biggest party nights of the year, they’re putting the word out there to make sure people clue in to how wrong it can go when you’re mixing heavy boozing with designer drugs you may or may not know the strength of. (By the way, cops speculate that only about 6% of sexual assaults that occur nationally in Canada get reported, so stats on what’s going on would be really inaccurate.)

It doesn’t take a lot to get your drugs or drinks spiked. I’ve had both happen to me. Someone sent me on an acid trip from hell a decade ago when I thought I was just smoking some happy dope. Hours and hours later, I finally came down, hiding in a corner behind some speakers, freaking the fuck out. Considering I was thousands of klicks away from friends and family, at a university newspaper/writer’s convention across the country, things could’ve gone much worse. Fortunately, all I remember is just being incredibly paranoid and scared. It popped my LSD cherry.

I can’t say the same fortune came my way the time I blacked out after someone spiked my booze at a party a few years back. All I remember is it being eight in the morning and waking up on a couch with all my clothes wet. I have no idea what happened that night, but I did have a guy apparently joke around with me as soon as I awoke (my legs were over his on the couch) and tell me “You were fabulous last night”, and while he said he was kidding, part of me knew the last thing I remembered before waking up was being fascinated by the eight foot-long turtles scurrying around in the bathtub across from the toilet and how much that fucked me up, and how much potential there was that something could have happened, and I’d never remember.

Apparently I was doing hot tub tricks later or something. I was, evidently, the life of the party. Pity I remember nothing. Fortunately, though, it seems most people could account for my whereabouts for most of the night… lucky I have a big, fun personality.

My point is this, and you can call me Mama Steff, if you wanna, but date rapes happen all the time. Stupid shit happens all the time. Drinking a lot is way easy to do, and mixing booze with anything else can really fuck you up. If you’re in a club, never EVER sit your drink down, and do NOT give it to anyone else to hold onto, especially if you know they want to fuck you. It’s so easy to dose you and take advantage, so just keep the power in YOUR hands by hanging on to your own drinks, eh?

Then there’s the small matter of drugs. Me, I like drugs. They’re fun. But the only drugs I do are the ones grown by someone, preferably Dead head type, who chats to his plants and ‘shrooms in a hydroponic greenhouse, thanks. I’ve tried the chemical shit, and bad things have happened every time. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack on Scooby Snacks, seriously. I almost went to a hospital. (Ephedrine, mushrooms, and some other little helpers all mixed together, sold in a pack of six pills, and some serious bang for the buck.) But I stick to the organics now.

You never know what you’re getting from a dealer. I love these people who just blindly trust dealers. They’re drug dealers. By their very nature they’re technically not trustworthy, you know? And you wanna assume everything’s peachy they’re giving you? Hell, I hear they’re grinding up glass and mixing it in with dope in the UK now, in order to get the weight up and sell you less dope ergo make more cash by hanging onto more of their stash. Powdered glass looks a lot like THC crystals, I hear tell.

Then the trouble with chemicals is, it’s pretty easy to fuck up the mix and get the balance off. You can’t labour under the assumption that the drug you’re doing this weekend’s the same potency as last weekend’s. And an hour later, when its full power kicks in, it’s impossible to turn back the clock on your dosage quantity, y’know? Hindsight 20-20 really sucks when you’re riding a high that’s too much bang for your buck.

The trouble with drug users is, too fucking many of you are too ignorant for your own good. If you don’t know what your drug is, what it’s made of, how it’s made, who made it, and how it got into your hands, then you shouldn’t be taking it. Seriously. If you’re doing Special K and you don’t know the ramifications, then you’re a fucking idiot. Learn something about it before you take that risk.

I’ve studied every drug I’ve taken, and the ones I’ve never touched are with very, very good reason.

And anyone who does crystal meth is a fucking idiot, whether they’re ignorant or not. Out of all the drugs out there, there’s no worse one to fuck with. And that’s in my humble little opinion, of course, but keep in mind I live in Vancouver, where drugs have taken their serious toll on our little populace, and we have 30 square blocks of one of the worst drug problems in the world, where crystal meth and heroin dominate the scene. And I also work in the film industry and have worked on far too many documentaries on how low one can go on meth. Bad, bad shit. Learn about this shit, seriously. And if you’re a parent, teach your kids.

Party up on Halloween. Just watch what you’re doing, be careful about your choices, and don’t get raped. If you don’t think it’s gonna happen to you, don’t kid yourself. It happens far more than you know, and about every woman, and some of the men, I know have had it happen to them.

Oh, and Happy Halloween. BOO!

(PS: While I like dope, a disturbing study has recently come to light in which it seems there might be a link between pot usage and schizophrenia. Too soon to know much, as it’s new information, but it’s something to be very wary of.)

So, like, HI. I thought I should just pop in and say HULLO to, well, my trusty minions. It’s the least you deserve, right?

I felt compelled to do some overtime today, which means I’m staring headlong into a six-day week. So uncool. But the gods of fate scoffed at me and handed me a broken hearing aid last week, which I’ve had to shell out $300 I had earmarked for computer upgrades. Which means I muddle through with my bogged down, overworked iBook for a few weeks longer.

Ah, well. At least the cash was around, eh? Not the ideal expenditure. I mean, how unsexy. Hearing aid repairs. Sigh. At least I can hear conversations and do my job, which is closed captioning, which means hearing conversations. Interesting circle, that.

(I’ve worn hearing aids most of my life, meaning 32 of 34 years, and most people need to be told I wear ’em, so they’re not those clunky big ones. And it gives me an interesting insight to life, I guess.)

Last night I hung with some friends who have decided that living paycheque to paycheque here in the city just wasn’t working anymore. Vancouver’s one of the most expensive places to live in North America, and the most expensive in Canada. If you’re making $90,000, it’s a great town, but under $40K means you’re saving pennies for a special occasion, if not just a box of Ramen noodles to get you by during more lean times.

(According to the 2007 EIU report on the world’s most expensive cities to live in, Vancouver is second only to New York for expensive lifestyles here in North America. For anyone doubting how cosmopolitan this town is, you got another fuckin’ thing coming. My perennial red line in my bank account is just proof of that pudding, thanks, but unlike all the other people who’ve clued in to how gorgeous and fucking awesome this town is, *I* was born and raised here. It’s in my blood. Don’t I get a discount or something? Ding the johnny-come-latelies, fer god’s sake.)

My friends had bought a house for around $300K and then flipped it within 2 years for $560K, and have fled the city to live in rural Ontario, where they’re gonna own a place 4 times the size, on 3.5 acres of land, for $250K.

Yeah, this is a great town to live in, but it really makes you question what’s important. Is it the $25+ entree dinners in swank places that have sexy names for martinis that are really, truly, just vodka served with juice for the lofty price of $9 to $12, or can you find your contentment at a cheaper price?

In chatting with ’em and their realizing how nigh the change is, from living just blocks from what’s considered the “counter-culture capital of Canada” (by Lonely Planet) and one of the coolest streets in the city, if not the country or continent, Commercial Drive, aka The Drive, where everything your heart desires (that isn’t provided by a chain store) can be found, to living in a big-ass house that’s 45 minutes from the nearest small-ish town, and a car ride from even the meagrest of necessities, I happened to mention something I’d heard once that struck home hard for them and sort of made ’em nod in agreement.

This wise dude I chatted up on a ferry back from the Sunshine Coast once said, and I’m paraphrasing and dressing it up, but along the lines of: “Cities are built for distraction. They’re there, chock full of things to do, places to be, people to see, so as to keep you from realizing just how much you’re feeling disconnected from everything you know’s important, but that you can’t name with words. It distracts you from your emptiness and your unhappiness, long enough it seems until it one day just hits you.”

So my friends are bravely heading off to a place far from anywhere, a place where, as Canadian poet Robert Service once said, “the silence bludgeons you dumb” — a place where they’ll finally find the time and solace to confront any demons they have, and unleash the happiness that hasn’t known how to come out in a busy, chaotic world like the one we’re in.

Every now and then, I’m wishing I’d be doing the same. Me, I’ve done that. I’ve lived in a small town up in the Yukon and know what community means, and harsh climates that force you to interact in new and different ways. There are days down here in the city, a city being taken apart and rebuilt for the world stage before the Olympics land on us in 2010, and there’ll be no turning back for this metropolis — 2 more years of non-stop construction everywhere the eye can see — when I just realize how soulless it all seems, how trying just keeping up to the pace of it all really does get.

Yeah, some nights the notion of living on one of the islands here on the coast, away from the madding crowd, is more than my imagination can bear. Some part of me, though, still really digs the distraction and the balance of nature this town offers. There’ll come a day, though. I’m almost certain there’ll come a day.

Meanwhile, Monday morning’s just hours away. Have an awesome week, peoples.