War resistors 
Now that James Loney is so much in the news for his return from war-torn Iraq, it seems timely to also raise the issue of another man who barely escaped from Iraq with his life. Joshua Key is an American war resistor who fled the United States to seek asylum in Canada with his wife and four children rather than return to the war in Iraq. Their story is here and here. Josh and his wife, Brandi, made a big impact on me when I met them last year. The sacrifices they made and the lengths to which they went so that Josh wouldn't have to kill anyone else were great and long. Their courage to stand by each other and for a belief very apparent. Josh appeared before the Immigration and Refugee Board hearing Thursday and they will deliberate his case over the next few weeks. If they send him back to the United States, he could face a firing squad, long imprisonment or, what he says would be worse than anything, being sent back to kill innocent people in Iraq again. Privately, Josh told me he would kill himself rather than shoot another woman or child. I believe him. I believe that Josh and Brandi will go back underground in Canada if he is denied refugee status and that the 27 year olds will raise their four children as fugitives until they are caught.He said there are not really any soldiers in Iraq. There are non-uniformed civilians fighting a guerilla war. Only desperate people trying to hang onto some thread of what they were.
To find out more about the war resistors in Canada, visit their website.
Miracles DO happen
There we all were, standing outside the home of James Loney's parents.
Word had gone out that he would come out with his family to pose for a few quick photos at 12:30. All the national and local media was there.
The air was electric with expectation.
A reporter asked a man who came out to brief us if she could give James Loney a hug. Everyone laughed. I thought I would like to hug the man too. The young reporter looked a little embarrassed but she laughed it off.
Even the most seasoned and cynical of us were obviously affected by the idea of finally seeing this man we had all done our best to learn so much about in the past four months.James Loney has obviously had a profoundly positive effect on everyone his life has touched and it was almost miraculous to actually see him walk out to the end of the driveway this afternoon.
There were about 50 journalists standing quietly waiting for him and his family to take their places. None spoke but a few quiet words, asking only very light, warm questions like, "did you get to wash your first sink of dishes yet, Jim?" or "what kind of pizza did you have last night?"
The family seemed shy and somewhat overwhelmed by all of us and the journalists equally humbled by the families' grace and warmth.
It was truly a heart-warming and miraculous experience. A rare gem of a story, filled with joy and love. It was the sort of story that keeps us all coming back for more and it was even more meaningful for me because I got to share it with a brand new colleague, one I haven't seen in 20 years (the one who got me into this in the first place) and I was able to get there because of a thoughtful call from another esteemed colleague.
Media vs media: Us against themMany artists view the rest of the media with a spectrum of reactions ranging from at best, an irritating but necessary evil to at worst, the enemy of their privacy, their message and their public image.I'll begin by defining us and them. By us, I mean writers of non-fiction. Generally journalists, reporters and public relations people -- though public relations people's production of non-fiction may be questionable. By them, I mean artists, performers and writers or creators of artistic/interpretive works. They could be musicians, actors, painters, photographers, poets, novelists or a whole host of other disciplines. Some of us are also them at times. Some of them are even us at times.But, make no mistake about it, we are ALL media.From Ask OxfordMEDIAnoun 1 the means of mass communication, especially television, radio, and newspapers collectively. 2 plural of MEDIUM.MEDIUMnoun pl.media or mediums 1 a means by which something is expressed, communicated, or achieved. 2 a substance through which a force or other influence is transmitted. 3 a form of storage for computer software, such as magnetic tape or disks. 4 a liquid with which pigments are mixed to make paint. 5 mediums a person claiming to be able to communicate between the dead and the living. 6 the middle state between two extremes. adjective between two extremes; average. ORIGIN: Latin, 'middle'.What is media but a means of communication? We all communicate and want as many people to get our message as we can expose to it. The journalist wants the world to hear what other people have to say. We are the ones in the middle. The other people are the artists, politicians, and anyone with a story to be told. The other people have a problem when the journalist filters what they have to say through his or her own ideas about what and how the world wants to hear it.The artist often primarily wants to create but for many there is an underlying need to expose their creations to the world. They want to get their interpretations of the world out into the world to be interpreted and responded to. Some of them even want, on some level, for life to imitate art but most want some sort of response to their work.Artists (as well as politicians, business people and others) generally realize the best vehicle to get their work (ideas and goals) out into the world is through journalists but they fear and hate what journalists may and often do to their work in the process of getting it out there. They tolerate us while we are doing what they want but, if we ask the wrong question (or they answer a question in a way they regret), take a bad photo or give the world information other than what the artist wants out there, we are the enemy. They openly distrust and exclude us more than they would any member of the public and justify their abuse of us by saying it is our job to get the story and get out so we should be able to take the abuse and get used to it. What they really fear is that we will get the story and get out. They are afraid that we will find some flaw or shortcoming in them or their work and their public image will be ours to ruin. A few of them believe that we are there to find a way to ruin their public image and that is our primary goal in life. They even believe that we have the power to do that.No one of us does. No single bad photo of a beautiful person will make the world believe that person is ugly. No solitary negative comment on a song or an artist will make the world believe that person's work or that person has no value or no worth; especially when there is a whole body of words and photos to say otherwise.A journalist who continuously slams people for no good reason will lose credibility. We must let the readers/listeners/watchers make up their own minds about the facts and our influence on them must be negligible or very subtle for us to maintain credibility. Credibility is our only true currency so none of us will risk it lightly. Nor will most of us intentionally burn our sources without due consideration.Both artists and journalists need to remember that we are ALL media, intent upon getting our ideas across to the rest of the world out there. For many of us, the world mostly involves the local arts and entertainment scene and who ever might notice us from outside our world is incidental. But regardless of the size of our world, we all just want to get our message out to it and for our message to be given credibility.We all just want respect for our work, our ideas and ourselves. Not long ago I posted a rather harsh blog after feeling excluded and mistreated by a community of musicians I held in great respect and whose acceptance on even a very surface level I craved. I thought long and hard about it and came back with the ideas above. I believe it is much the same as the blog I was flamed for but better stated and I stand by my assertion that many artists treat journalists poorly. Perhaps some of that poor treatment is justified; perhaps some of it is irrational and unfounded fear of humiliation. Perhaps my feeling that artists treat journalists poorly comes from my own irrational desire to have credibility among the artists I am a medium for.I took my medicine over the last blog and am healthier for it. Now I am putting on my asbestos underwear and getting ready for more because this issue is far from resolved in my little corner of the world.A few artists whom I have supported in the past have come forward to offer me private support for my annoyed rant. A few have come forward in private to flay me alive. One even told me not to cover any more of his shows.I hope to continue to cover local artists in a professional way but no longer crave inclusion in their community. If they give me any credibility it will be a bonus but my primary goal continues to be to support local original music. I can do this from as far away as Brian Kelly does and I can do this without emotional involvement.
Ami wants onion rings
So off I go into the dark of night, where I like it best. No nasty sun shining in my eyes. No cheerful people walking their dogs. No joggers, lean and fit, taking a moment to wave as they fly by on the wings joy.
I really hate the day time. Nope, no regular version of seasonal affective disorder here. I am the antithesis of seasonally affected disorders. I get happy when it gets dark.
So up to Burger King I go, singing a happy song (from some soundtrack, you know like Akasha or the Crow or maybe it was the Skinny Puppies... I forget).
So I get to the drivethrough thinking, 'Oh yeah, Andre Riopel would be SO proud of me now! High Five! -- Wait a second, did I bring any money with me!?'
While digging in my purse for change a car pulls up behind me so I pull ahead to the little talkie box.
"WelcometoBurgerKing, wheeze-wheeze, howmayI crackle fuzzzz?"
"Uh, hi, do you take debit?"
...
"Hello, do you take interac, debit, you know plastic cards?'
...
"Hello? Is there anybody out there?"
"... crackle POP cracklehelp you ma'am"
"Uh, deb-bit?" I say v-e-r-y slowly.
"YES MA'AM How can I HELP you?"
"Onion rings, lots a them, oh and an Angus Burger a la Craig West." I blurt out in shock and indignation at the seemingly innocent box's outburst.
"Par-don me?" It replies, slowly and with an icy calm.
"Oh, um, one Angus Burger combo, nothing on it... just bun-meat-bun, you know... oh but you can put the onions on it, okay? Is that okay? And can you make it with onion rings instead of fries?"
Thinking Ami might be really hungry for onion rings I quickly add, "And another order of large onion rings."
Just as I sit back and relax, thinking the order ordeal over, the box squawks at me, "TO DRINK????"
"Abadda ahh, uh, Rootbeer, yeah, rootbeer no ice," I stammer.
As I drive slowly and cautiously around the corner I see a $10 bill in my bag and pull it out.
The drive through window opens to reveal a bespectacled little man with wild brown hair sticking out all over the back of his head. He is standing with a paper cup of pop in one hand, and a straw in the other, looking like he's been waiting all night like that. I make to hand him the money and he shoves the drink in my hand. I nearly drop the cash and quickly stow the drink in my cup holder.
When I turn back, the intense little man is shuffling under the counter for another straw. Apparently he just dropped the first one without waiting to see if it was in my hand or not.
"Oops, sorry," I say as I back away from my door a bit. "I found some cash..." and I give him a tentative smile.
He looks at me like I just murdered the last Dodo bird in the world as he hands me the straw and a little piece of paper with no obvious markings on it.
"Take your receipt around to the other window," he says as he drops my change in my hand. I drive around to the other window and put my car in park knowing you have to have orangutan arms to reach the window.
A slim blonde girl hangs out the window, which is, incidentally, about 2 feet from a door.
"Thanks, that's quite the reach, isn't it," I say as she hands me a bag of what I assume is food.
She says nothing, only looks at me like I was the very person who stabbed Christ through the heart as he hung on the cross.
'Whoa,' I think as I drive away. 'Remind me never to work nights at Burger King in Sault Ste. Marie. It seems to seriously suck.'
I check and find the order is right then drive off after cranking the tunes again.
Down to Mac's on Second Line I go for smokes. I stand there and chat with the two clerks about what to buy Ami, since they are out of her favourite brand of death stick. In walks this guy, lean, about 35 to 40, dressed in expensive casual clothes, very clean, gold rimmed glasses, short, dark hair and receding hairline.
He is clearly agitated when he asks the younger clerk if he is on the right road for Thunder Bay.
I laugh.
"Uh nope, you be heading for the lake, sir," I say.
He starts waving his arms around and his voice becomes more loud and starts to raise hysterically as he says, "There are no signs in this town! Why aren't there any SIGNS in this town!? Why don't they put any signs here!? There really are NO SIGNS around here..."
"That's because its Sault Ste. Marie," I say in what I hope is a calming voice.
"I KNOW I'm in Sault Ste. Marie!" he says with one more hand brandish.
"I mean, there are no signs BECAUSE it's Sault Ste. M... oh, never mind," and I pretend to find something really interesting on my foot.
The young clerk jumps in to rescue me and speaks in an efficient, well-informed sounding voice,
"Drive east, back the way you came, (pointing as she talks) through six lights until you come to an intersection with Tim Horton's on your right, Petro Can on your left and a Shell station across the street and on your right. Turn left there and you will be on Highway 17 North to Thunder Bay."
The sign-needy man immediately relaxes. He repeats the clerk's directions and I wait for her to confirm them as correct before piping up, again craving the taste of my own foot.
"Seek ye Tim Horton's young man, turn at Tim's."
"Just not the first one," says the clerk.
"Oh yeah, I forgot there is at least one between here and there," I stammer and return to quietly inspecting my shoe as I wonder if I'm really as stupid as I look and sound.
The man laughs and thanks me first before nodding his thanks to the two clerks and departing the store.
Now I am home blogging on a very full belly.
Ami has her smokes and the onion rings are done.
I couldn't eat much of the burger and gave most of it to Cooper but still feel like I should be making myself barf before I run downtown and back to purge myself of that adventure.
Hopefully Ami will have had enough onion rings to last a while.
Feelin' like a bum
Ho hum. It's so awesome to lounge around in the afternoon sun.
There I was, sitting with Ami on the front steps Sunday afternoon at 2 p.m. in my pyjamas smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.
Oh yeah! That's the life.
Well, for about 20 minutes anyway. Then it's back to moving furniture around, building bunk-beds, writing stories, preparing the kids clothes and snacks for the week ahead and cleaning out the basement.
Yup, 20 minutes I sat around and did absolutely nothing -- other than think about all the stuff yet to do. But I did manage to look like I'm relaxing for at least 20 minutes. I'm so proud of myself!
Live HERE AND NOW!
For the love of instant mashed potatoes
I like instant mashed potatoes.
Yes, I've openly admitted it. I like instant mashed potatoes.
Now, of course this raises the issue of looking at the ingredients. I am afraid to find out how many calories there are per serving and how big a serving really is because I have a feeling I would find myself sitting and staring at a three table spoon serving thinking, 'Do I really want to use up 400 of my 800 calorie a day diet on this!?'
And point number two of ingredient lists... sulphates. I am very sensitive to them. They are everywhere. I bet it's number two on the ingredient list after potatoes. That, of course, would be why I like them so much.
I guess instant mashed potatoes are a lot like love. You have a taste and want more. Then you find out what goes into it and want to stop wanting it.
The highway or the lumpy way
The year that I was born Edward Asselbergs invented the first instant food. That's right, instant food.
"Edward Asselbergs developed the first powdered instant fish, cheese and meat in Ottawa," says Valerie Wyatt in the Kids Book of Canadian Firsts.
"The new foods were not a hit – they were lumpy and hard," she says. "Asselbergs solved the problem by adding instant potatoes, which he also invented." Also in the year I was born, and a few weeks after my birthday of June 22, The Trans-Canada Highway was officially opened.
A box of instant mashed potatoes to the first person who correctly guesses the year I was born… anyone who already knows is disqualified, though.
A bonus box of instant mashed potatoes is on its way to Canadian Mark for putting me on The Premium Canadian Blogs poll.
Thanks Mark.
Shkmissy and the supercanabalistic fish
I woke up this morning with a cat on my head and a kid on my tummy. The cat was trying to claw its way out of the vice-like grip of the kid.When the cat realized there was a living being under her claws she was morbidly embarrassed. The kid found that to be just way too funny. I swear, the cat had a “oops, I’m really REALLY sorry about that look on her face” as I pried her claw out of my forehead. But she soon cheered up as I applied a similar vice-like hold to the kid.“Shkmissy” I mumbled through the bleary morning fog that had barely been abated by blood and tears from four tiny claws finding their way into my tender flesh.“What!?” giggled the kid as I proceeded to squish the love out of my little missy.“Shkmissy. Squish the missy,” I said, demonstrating the technique.“I want to pet the fishies, mommy,” she replied between giggles. “Can I go pet the fishies?”“Anything to get out of a good shkmiss, eh Nova?” I said to her as she wiggled off the bed.“Just watch out for Doree.” I told her as she sauntered off down the hall. “She’ll probably take your finger off. She’s a supercannabalistic fish, you know.”It had the desired effect. Now everyone is wandering around my house singing songs from Mary Poppins. Bwa ha ha ha! Phase one of my evil plan is working.Now if I could only beat the bathroom scale into submission, all the important stuff in my life would be in order.Well, okay, and fix our computers, assemble the desks, clean the kids’ rooms so Ami can move in, help Ami with her homework, save the Falun Gong in the Chinese organ farm, end world hunger, earn the respect of peers, serve whirled peas for dinner, and maybe do something about my self-esteem/body-image while I’m at it.Yeah, then everything would be cool. Wouldn’t it? I wish.
Vertigo
Smoke rises all around me
Ghostly
Illusive
Illusory shadows of smoke curl around me
Slant
Tilt
Lean into it
Taller
Growing like Alice in Wonderland
Rising above it
Then slope sharply to the side and slide right off
Spinning out of control
Where am I going?
Integravations
A friend of mine who likes to make up words (and steal Dana's made-up words) says I have some integravating habits. Adrift on a sea of infinite sadness Awash with deep regret
There is this blogger's tendency to avoid using the first person in conversation or in writing. She says that is incredibly annoying - down right integravating.
Tremendous tenacity brings
Terrors in the night
She also cites this blogger's habit of responding to comments, suggestions and questions with questions as being obtuse and inconsiderate. She says that it is a way of being passive aggressive and avoiding every opportunity to communicate the blogger's genuine feelings.
Is it? Says this blogger.
Separation of spirit and heart from mind and body
Severing the soul
Every day she asks for the untold - knocks a little louder – digs down deeper. One of these days she’s going to realize there is nothing there to dig for. No buried treasure here. No pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Everything is gone
Empty
This blogger only hopes the eventuality of that realization doesn't do to her what it did to... ME.
NO, I AM NOT A PIECE OF FURNITURE
I am a living, feeling person, here behind these eyes I just don't know
Who is this blogger, anyway? Just an insignificant observer. An observer cowering in the corner of her heart - trying to keep away from the shovel.
SQUIM...
squim...
Squim...
Squimvinity!
>I win... kept the fact that I can never leave the place I wanted him to be hidden, didn't I?<
Star Trek character
Your results:
You are An Expendable Character (Redshirt)
| An Expendable Character (Redshirt) |
| 100% | | Mr. Sulu |
| 100% | | Deanna Troi |
| 95% | | Data |
| 83% | | Worf |
| 80% | | Geordi LaForge |
| 70% | | Spock |
| 65% | | Beverly Crusher |
| 60% | | James T. Kirk (Captain) |
| 60% | | Jean-Luc Picard |
| 60% | | Leonard McCoy (Bones) |
| 60% | | Will Riker |
| 50% | | Mr. Scott |
| 35% | | Uhura |
| 30% | | Chekov |
| 30% |
| Since your accomplishments are seldom noticed,
and you are rarely thought of, you are expendable.
That doesn't mean your job isn't important but if you
were in Star Trek you would be killed off in the first
episode you appeared in.
 |
Click here to take the "Which Star Trek character are you?" quiz...
This one turned out to be totally on the money. Right at this moment, Rodney Dangerfield's words 'No respect' ring so FREAKIN' true.
What does a person have to do to get some respect? Spend thousands of hours taking photos, doing interviews, writing stories, promoting the HELL out of people? Nope, not good enough.
Maybe stay up all night long editing videos then get up to go to look after kids, go to school and earn a living? Nope, that's not good enough, either.
How about pour out a heart full of compassion, support and thoughtfulness? Nope. That leads straight to doormat city.
How about starve to be thin and almost attractive enough to look at when you are spoken to? Nope. It's the look-over-the-shoulder-while-pretending-to-listen-and-bolt-at-the-first-opportunity treatment instead.
What would be a sign of respect? Uh, lets start with a simple, "Hello, it's a pleasure to see you here. Thanks for coming out to the show." And try saying it to the reporter, not just to the people she brought with her to hear what she STILL (maybe stupidly) thinks is good music.
But to be completely honest, of the dozen or so musicians regularly covered and promoted on SooToday.com there are three, sometimes four, who would ever be caught talking to this lowly red-shirt in public unless they had something for her to do. One of them is the consummate gentleman, another a gracious and supportive woman, the third a couple of dear friends. They have earned loyal support from this lowly red-shirt, not just for the good work they do, but for the kindness and grace they show while doing it.
The rest treat her like some sort of embarrassment. The creepy, fat, ugly, stupid groupie who has to inflict herself on them by coming to take pictures at every show.
Recognition and gratitude are not expected. Saying something like, "Hey the media is here, thanks for coming out media person" would be REALLY embarrassing.
Just simple courtesy would be fully appreciated. Maybe even almost as much courtesy and respect they show other photographers/reporters.
"Hello, this is the red-shirt in black and former doormat, signing off and saying, BITE ME."
Okay, vent done. We now return you to your regular programming and hopefully something much more interesting and clever will be found to blog about tomorrow.
Everyone who is not a local musician, or who is among the four or so who understand courtesy, sorry about that. We just had to clear the air so we can return to our usual smiling, supportive attendance at shows without throwing up on our shoes or something.
Yes, this would be a royal 'we'. It's just that this lowly red-shirt has difficulty speaking in the first person. It appears to have been beaten out of her by bad.
Blissful ignorance
My house is calm and quiet, with just enough buzz to know its alive and filled with love.Right now, there are four girls, a cat and a dog who just met last night, five fish and assorted spirits occupying my three bedroom abode and its peaceful. Quiet and serene. Believe it or not. 
Yesterday, I told Ami that I love a man so much that I can't love another man so I will be single for the rest of my life. She said, "Shit, Yumi, you love him so much you can't even love yourself."
Very insightful, my bio-chem/english major Ami.Now I am setting my sights on a happy single life filled with love and even self-acceptance.Missing him has been pushed into the smallest corner of my awareness. It is a little nibble of my whole soul supper. The majority of my soul-food is made up of wholesome family/friend love and a joy of doing what I'm doing. Here and now. Good morning.
Echo and Narcissus
This nymph, Echo, saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest accents and win him to converse, but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first and had her answer ready.One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?"Echo replied, "Here."Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come."Echo answered, "Come."As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question in return."Let us join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!""Have me," said she, but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her embarrassment in the recesses of the woods.From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, until at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.Bereft of me
I do decayI am, indeed deadDeclaration of motivation goneExsanguination completeDry desiccated corpsFertility flownNo more crops to be grownShrunken heart, dehydrated liverWithered wishes wander aimlesslyWhen will this foul and putrid bodyCatch up with the fearful soul fledNo touchieNo tellNo tingling desires dwellFrozen smile bereft of meI’ll get by myself, you’ll seeWaiting for hungry eyes to closeWaiting for gnawing pit to quietThe body is the enemy, the prisonDeath done at long last, the only saving graceWaitingWaiting with baited breathWaiting for it to be where he should have beenAt my sideAll over meInside meFilling up the emptinessFinding me hiding in the hollow spacesWatching me flourishFood on which to nourishMy desireMy desireMe
Vagine-OH-MITE!
That's the name of the new drink Steve and Andréa made up to mark the occasion of this year's production of the Vagina Monologues.It's going pretty well, I think.
There are a lot of people coming to the shows and they are saying good things when they leave, although they look a little dazed. I hope that's just that the show had some effect on them, like other than putting them to sleep.
Somehow, I don't think anyone could sleep through Andréa bolting through the room and screaming CUNT at the top of her lungs, though, so I'll say it's going pretty well.Last night tonight.
I'll miss working with the vagina warriors but I'm ready to return to the normal life of a supermom/reporter.
That's four of the nine of us below. Steve Alexander from Loplop is seen with Andréa, Becky and the drinks invented to celebrate the show. Those drinks are very good, too.
Hopefully we will find our way back to Loplop for a round of them after the show tonight. Economy Studz and the Vagina Warriors seem some how apt.
A review about the show is here. An article about it is here.
Now that James Loney is so much in the news for his return from war-torn Iraq, it seems timely to also raise the issue of another man who barely escaped from Iraq with his life. 
