The Golden Girls, the better Sex and the City

One of the few joys and pleasures I get out of having cable is not watching CNN, or Jersey Shore , it's the ability to rush home and catch re-runs of the smash 80's sitcom, The Golden Girls. A good dose of Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sophia never fails to have me laughing out loud. And I have to admit, I love to play the "which Golden Girl am I?" game. These grandmas give Carrie Bradshaw et al. a run for their money when it comes to portraying "women in their element."

Rather than a bunch of aging, lonely women who use sex as a distraction from their unhappiness, and a tool to appear "empowered" as women, The GG's are a bunch of aged, wise women, who know a thing or two about sex, but don't use it to define their existence. Unless you're a true Blanche or Samantha, chances are you aren't into meaningless encounters, and you likely feel more shamed than empowered when you tip-toe out of what's-his-name's boudoir. So ladies, let's stop likening ourselves to the Carries, Charlottes, Mirandas and Samanthas out there, and if you must compare, let's go with a throw-back to Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia. These women were from an era when women weren't ashamed to be....women. Which GG are you?

Blanche Devereau versus Samantha Jones.

Blanche is the quintessential southern belle, who is not shy about using her feminine guile to get what she wants...but what she wants happens to be, well, a little southern lovin... not dissimilar to Samantha, sassy New Yorker, whose passion is passion. But if the gloves are on, who wins the battle of the sex goddess? Age before beauty, folks. Blanche and Samantha both portray strong, independent women, but Samantha lacks the ability to commit - a quality that undoubtedly makes her popular with the women who are unable to find someone to commit to, and are desperately looking for someone to relate more positively to, while Blanche has been there, done that. She's been married, she's had kids, and now, she's found time for a few dozen test drives before she settles down again, yet, she always acts the lady...

Dorothy Zbornak versus Miranda Hobbes

Every group of girlfriends has one of these, the know-it-all.
Arguably the least attractive out of each group, these two share a penchance for sarcasm and slight negativity. Dorothy, the substitute teacher, and Miranda, the lawyer both mean business and tell it like it is. Yet, somehow Dorothy maintains an essence of femininity and realism that Miranda lacks (despite being 6' tall and having a man voice).

Rose Nyland versus Charlotte York


Aaaah, the innocent simpleton. The frustratingly naive and perpetually perky - every gaggle has one of these, right? Rose and Charlotte are the friends that you have to tell to put the ear muffs on when you're discussing anything that happens in either the bathroom or the bedroom. Yet, we still manage to see Charlotte get busy on the show...and some things are better left to the imagination. Rose's image? Pristine.

Sophia Petrillo versus Carrie Bradshaw

Okay, it's a stretch. And I would really rather not compare anyone to Sophia, because she's in an awesomeness league of her own, but here goes...

Sophia is the story-teller that Carrie wishes she could be. Sure, the real Bradshaw's writing has led to a couple of movies and a smutty show that rakes in the ratings, but can anyone conjure up an image like a fiesty Sicilian who begins every story with, "Picture it...."?

The Fall of Humanity...sideways. Didn't you notice??

Dear Humanity,

Please take a moment to put down your Starbucks coffee, your iPhone (or *gasp*, Blackberry) and your hand-held mirror, and use your now free hand to slap yourself in your self-absorbed face. Then, hop on a ferry and get the hell off your personal island, and realize that you, alone, are not the only person that matters. Relax, I took the ferry last night, it wasn't that bad - in fact, I feel great...aside from the now nagging sense of dissatisfaction with the world and those who inhabit it. Oh wait...yep, that was there before. It's okay, my hand-held mirror's probably just fogged up...

Don't get me wrong, I love a good, long personal island visit as much as the next gal, but there are limits to these sorts of indulgences, limits which prevent, for lack of a better word, chaos. I met my limit last night, and made an emergency ferry ride off the island, back to reality, where the world I live in is full of all kinds of shit. Love, hate, hurt, happiness, needs, hopes, fears and dreams.

I was on the bus, happily day-dreaming, or lamenting over something unimportant (it's usually one of those two things). I was standing near the back door, facing the front of the bus. On my way on, I noticed a few things: a lady sitting near the front, facing forward, asleep, with several bags piled onto the seat next to her, one man sitting across the aisle from her, also facing forward, and two woman sitting in front of her, facing inward. No one was talking to one another, they were all safe on their islands. As the bus started moving, I noticed from my back-of-the-bus vantage point that sleepy lady was falling off her chair. Not yet concerned, as I have on many occasions fallen asleep on the bus, I keep an eye on her, but don't move. Levels of "concern" at the front of the bus, however, were obviously higher, because one by one, the three non-sleepy passengers from the keener end of the bus move to seats toward the back, quite obviously escaping the inconvenience of having to look out for a fellow human. The lady is now hanging so far sideways off of her chair that her arm and pony-tail are dangling on the ground. Now, I don't want to claim I'm an expert on bus-sleeping, but...I am - and I know this is neither natural nor comfortable, because as soon as you start falling forward or sideways in bus-sleep, you wake up. (Digression: the head-bob, fallover-bus-wakeup is my favourite thing to witness....this wasn't that.) Alarm bells in my head. I bee-line to sleepy lady, who will now be referred to as passed-out lady, and pick her upper body up and reposition it into an upright position. She does not wake up, but seems to respond slightly to being re-positioned, as it wasn't that hard to move her.  I stay there, wearily, as if she would wake up at any moment to find me staring intently at her while standing over her and she would find this very odd and creepy. But she's not about to wake up, she's falling over again and now I'm worried. I have made several observations in the meantime, and decide that the situation is serious. She is wearing a hospital bracelet, her arm is heavily bandaged, and she is not responding to me shaking her to wake her up.  I prop her up, run to the bus driver to alert him whilst dialing 911, and run back to hold her up and check for breathing. The driver pulls over the bus, and at this point, and only at this point, someone else decides to help. I am receiving instructions from the paramedic that I can't carry out while holding the phone, so the help is needed. We have to lift this lady onto the ground and into the recovery position, and call for help, and in total, including myself, three people come to her aid. Three out of thirty, and it was with hesitance and reluctance that two of them helped. As I'm on the phone with the 911 operator, I take a quick scan of the people around me, and in the most appalling display of apathy and selfishness, a lady who had been sitting closest to passed-out lady actually signalled to me that I should hang up with 911, because the bus driver was on the phone with someone, he should deal with it. In her mind, not only should she have no part in this, but I shouldn't either - which made me so angry, but also so puzzled. How come this perfect stranger was more concerned about me being inconvenienced by having to call 911, than she was for the welfare of passed-out lady? She seemed disgusted that she was having any part of this ordeal, and was that look of disgust and attempt to dissuade me from calling 911 directed at me because she was being inconvenienced by all of this? Would she have rather that no one pay any attention to this lady, so that the bus could make its scheduled stops and she could go on with her extremely important Monday night? I was fairly certain that nothing that was happening right then and there on that woman's personal island was so goddamn important that it superseded the LIFE of another, but hey, that was just a guess on my part.
I have no time for this devil woman, as I am busy clearing airways and actually giving a shit.


Airway clear - check.

Breathing steady - check.

Paramedics en route - check.

Passed-out lady going to make it - check.

Bus full of total assholes - check.


The paramedics arrive and wade their way through the aforementioned assholes, and manage to regain the consciousness of passed-out lady, and carry her safely to the waiting ambulance. The bus, just as if nothing had happened, resumes it's route and no one says a word.

How is it that we have become so desensitized to humanity, that we are willing and able to ignore life happening around us? Life, living, surviving, BEING - what does it mean, if we are in it alone?

Cerveza, please

This here is a pretty lovely afternoon...

We're used to things falling from the sky in the rainy city...

Attention all west-end Vancouver hipster, cruiser bike-riding folks: on your next ride around the seawall, you might be struck with a little piece of Vancouver history, literally, as shoe-sized chunks of the Burrard Street bridge are falling off at random.


Vancouver Bridge drops chunks of concrete on bike path

An Intellectual Crush on Dave Eggers

It all started about five years ago when I was working as a bartender in a casual dining establishment. A thirty-something yr old man sat at my bar and ordered a glass of wine and took out a book to read (one of my favourite pastimes, I might add...) and, by way of making light conversation, I asked him what book he was reading. He answered with zeal, and was all too happy to recommend it highly, even taking a moment to read me a few notable sentences. He succeeded in selling me on the book, which was soon to become one of my favourites, and also exposing me to what would become my fixation on the brain of one, Dave Eggers, author (among many things) of "A Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius," the book in question.

Okay, so he wrote this really fantastic book that I couldn't put down...and a whole bunch of others that I cherished for their raw, candid and un-selfconscious descriptions of the inner workings of his brilliant mind, as well as their startling witticisms, but it doesn't end there, folks. Good ol' Dave started a little publishing house (McSweeney's) that included a slough of young, innovative individuals who were as equally brilliant and quirky in their writing styles as he was. As if that wasn't enough, he really won my heart when he was 2008's TED Prize winner for his amazing talk on his amazing accomplishments with 826 Valencia, his publishing house-turned-after school tutoring centre and pirate supply store. Watch the TED talk and you'll see what I mean...



Brain-crush worthy? Heck yes...

Amazon.com: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (9781400032716): Mark Haddon: Books

Amazon.com: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (9781400032716): Mark Haddon: Books

A must-read.
A book from the perspective of a 15 year old boy with Asperger Syndrome (Autism) that will change the way you view not only those who suffer from this, but the world in general. The protagonist, Christopher, really gave the word, "observant" a new meaning for me.

Assumptions

I went to get my taxes done 2 days ago. For no particular reason I was in a bad mood; the kind that takes control over your face, making it sneer or appear perpetually bored without you even knowing it. I had a 3 o'clock appointment at H&R Block, and I was early, as I always am. I sat down next to an old man, neither of us initially seeming pleased by the company of one another...maybe he was in a bad mood too.

He made a quick recovery from his bad mood and asked me if I had tried to do my taxes on my own before I came to see the accountant. I hadn't, and I told him so. My first sentence to him was a little louder than I normally talk (I am a quiet talker) because I am not sure if his hearing is still in tact, an assumption I make based on his age. (Assumption # 1 - Dude is old and probably can't hear shit. Or in a nicer way: Old people are often hard-of-hearing)

We continue talking and, in response to his questions, I provide vague details of my job and what about it made my taxes difficult enough to forgo attempting to do my taxes on my own. I realize that I am being vague because I'm not sure if he'll know what I'm talking about if I'm slightly more specific, and I don't feel like being very specific. (Assumption #2: Old people have no idea what young people are talking about...they can't keep up....brutal assumption, I know)

I don't reciprocate the question asking, which is very uncharacteristic of me, as I generally dislike people who are unaware of proper conversation etiquette and omit the reciprocity. (I blame this on my aforementioned "bad mood")

Example:
normal person: "Hey, how was your weekend?"
socially awkward/inept person: "My weekend was awesome.."

(awkward pause where normal person waits for awkward person to ask how her/his weekend was....still waiting, still waiting...nope. Conversation over.)

Thankfully, cute, chatty old man isn't phased and he tells me about his taxes and work anyway. He tells me that he is retired, but still does some publications of things that he likes to write about. I think this is awesome, but it surprises me slightly, and I am now intensely curious both about what he writes about, and about what his profession was. I assess the situation for clues:

1) He has a thick European accent (which may or may not be Italian, Greek, or Croatian. The fact that I have no idea and all of these accents are quite different makes my thoughts digress slightly while I'm listening to him and I wonder, briefly, what it would be like to be a linguistics expert..."Excuse me sir, I couldn't help but notice that you draw out your long A sounds and curl your R's. You wouldn't happen to be from the east-side of Zadar, Croatia, would you? Hmm, yes, I thought so....")

2) He is short and stout, with a very kind face and demeanor

3) His warm smile shows two gold teeth on the upper right side of his mouth, the side that I am looking at from where I am sitting.

4) He's dressed casually, in a fleecy jacket and baseball cap and cotton slacks.

Sooo, certainly not an accountant, given that he was getting his taxes done at H&R Block. He's a retired cobbler? He ran a bakery? A tradesman? His hobby writing is about the old country? I had no clue, but I'll tell you that he did not strike me as a banker, doctor, lawyer or the likes. I don't know why, something about the kind, down-to-earth demeanor, and some compartment of my mind connecting that to simplicity of mind? (Assumption # 3: He is an immigrant to Canada, so possibly worked as a labourer and is not likely university educated)

We continue talking, and I'm sure about one thing: I like this man. I really don't care what he did for a living or what he writes about, because it won't change the fact that he's a nice man, but I'm still curious. I won't lie to you, I was nothing short of shocked when I discovered that his "hobby" writing is about tectonic plate movement and seismic activity and how it relates to building and engineering, and that he still gives guest lectures at local universities who study one of this three books on the subject. PhD. Energy efficient urban research and design, and green architecture.


Cobbler? Baker? Skimping on specifics of my job at the university because I wasn't sure he'd get it? Egg on my face...

This man was a class-act: obviously intelligent, but didn't need to flaunt it or condescend you with it. His profession didn't define who he was, which was a kind man who turned my bad mood into a good one.

To think, or not to think?

Sometimes I wonder why people worry so much about how they sound. About how their words are strung together, about how it sounds to be brilliant.

But this is my worry - my worry for myself, not for anyone else. I don't really wonder why "people" worry about this, I wonder why I worry about it. Starting a sentence is like jumping out of an airplane sometimes. I feel like it's never quite the right wording - I'm not certain where and how I will land, so I just stay in the doorway of the airplane with my typewriter laying silently on my lap. I consider whether or not I will bring the typewriter when I finally jump, but decide against it because I don't want anything impeding my ability to open the chute, nor do I want to lose the typewriter, obviously....
So maybe I'll stay on the plane and write about how I could have jumped, and how it might have felt. Or maybe I'll jump and hope that I don't break my arms so I can still type after I land - but that's not a valid worry, is it? No, there are dictiphones and scribes to do those sorts of things for me these days...


I just think too much. Thinking is great, don't get me wrong, I am a huge proponent of thinking. But too much thinking leads to inaction. I can think myself into and out of something ten or fifteen times, and then think myself around and above it too. All this in, out, around, above, through and across thinking and you'd think that I would be all thought out...or through, or above, in, or around, I suppose. But there is no end to thought, or at least there shouldn't be, because there is nothing around us that is certain. There is always something to learn or question or ponder. That is also why I should stop thinking so much - if nothing is ever certain, then there is no end to how much I could think, and therefore, no possibility of being able to "think something through". Maybe I just need to do. So, here I am. I am writing. I am doing.

The Art of Blogging

Where does one begin? I guess it all starts with an idea, something that is itching to jump out of your brain, through your fingertips, and onto the screen. Or perhaps it takes a lot of prodding and coercing to get that reluctant (yet brilliant of course) idea out of your head. Should it have a purpose, incite action or passion in others, or answer age-old questions? Ideas aren't always as brilliant as one thinks they are, they are usually, if not always, much more brilliant than we give ourselves credit for. Yes, I said it - ideas, mine and yours alike, are brilliant.


We must not get bogged down in the "it's been done/said before" rut; rather, we must understand that we can shed new and glorious light on remarks of the past, bringing forth new meaning and/or re-popularize ideas. The thoughts that run through our heads all day long are ordinary to us, because we are used to them, but they have the potential of being far from ordinary for anybody else. They even have the potential to be so "ordinary" that they become extraordinary when expressed.

The Beginning...

Here's where we begin. A nice, wide-open, solid path leading to what remains to be discovered. I like this image as an image of beginnings because it's not a path that strikes me as one you would be in a hurry on. I believe that some people need to slow down, while others need to hurry up. Let's start with the slowing down...