If I had my way, today would be Groundhog Day, Bill-Murray-style, and I could relive all of it for an eternity (maybe swap out Ned Ryerson for Bono and I'd be set?...)
For my friends who know me personally, they know how much I appreciate all-things 1980s.
And TODAY is the day I can finally geek out in the glory of a 20yrs-younger me....
TODAY is the Roxette concert! (Click here if you don't understand why this is kinda a big deal for me.)
To top it off, one of my favourite bands, the iconic Canadian Glass Tiger will open the show in a setting that perfectly suits my appreciation for their music - I've seen them play the casino shows a few times when they blew through town, but the volume of both crowd and music, combined with the general atmosphere, just isn't LOUD enough for my needs. Alan Frew requires more space to rock it out and jump off barricades and into the crowds to body surf while the masses sing along to Animal Heart with reckless abandon.
(Don't tell Per Gessle and Marie Fredriksson, but I would pay their ticket price JUST to watch Glass Tiger perform their set.)
It's an 80s revival night, and the resurgence of the 80s makes me one VERY happy Cat.
If only I could summon the powers of Sonny & Cher, or bottle the magic of Groundhog Day itself, or find whatever it was that allowed Bill Murray to wake up to the same events every day...sigh...
Whilst waiting for my crimping iron to heat up, I see my hairbrush has once again turned into a microphone. Funny how that happens.... :)
I can still remember the smell of the styrofoam/cardboard aroma that wafted out of the box as I tore into it, revealing my greatest purchase ever: a dual cassette deck with AUTO REVERSE.
I was 15 years old, in the middle of a successful hair-brush-mic-karaoke-in-my-bedroom-mirror career, and now, with this awesomely cool dual cassette ghetto blaster with bass boost, I was COOL.
(Well, coolER. My mom told me I'd ALWAYS been hip....obviously....)
This phenemonal advance in technology allowed the music-lovin' masses the opportunity to enjoy their favourite tapes without the hassle of flipping over to side B once the tuneage on side A ended.
A stellar step up in the world of technology. How on earth could anything beat this? What on earth could they come up with next?
Little did I know, my "greatest purchase ever" was soon to become a primitive piece of audio enjoyment - could any 15yr old really prepare for the flood of fascinating toys that was about to inundate the industry?
In a flurry of evolutions and revolutions, from CDs (super audio and otherwise) to mp3s, discmans (discmen?) and iTunes, studio sound booths to some kid's mom's basement in front of the computer with a mic patched in, the development of the music scene, both production and distribution-wise, has had a more far-reaching effect than it once did just years before.
(Thanks, Internet!)
But, oddly enough, after I sadly recognized the short shelf life of my "greatest purchase ever", and after I'd caved and purchased successors to my beloved boom box (the CD player, the iPod), I couldn't help but find a hint of hilarity (or sense of pride perhaps?) in the sustainability of the cassette's predecessor, the popular LP.
Yep, the good ol' record player. My first music-playing medium. (I had one just like this! Ahh, the memories...)
The hilarity stems from the fact that, after all the creative ways to produce and play music, vinyl - my earliest music-related memory - is making its comeback. Of course records have always been around, but their popularity waned in light of more recent innovations. And now, they're becoming the mainstream medium again. So what the heck? What about mp3s? And all my CDs that have been sitting around, unused for years (with the exception of Hootie & the Blowfish - that disc's propping up a dresser)...is this a case of history repeating itself? Have we just run out of ways to preserve and play tunes? Or has vinyl just been the constant, steadfast formidable force in audio playback, unmatched in quality?
I'm going with the latter.
After wading through a variety of mediums, I find myself back where I began, only putting a modern spin on my classic memory: slowly building up my collection of LPs and enjoying them on my new state-of-the-art turntable (purdy, ain't she?!). Only this time, I've got U2 and Beatles vinyl (a far cry from the Sesame Street and Disney "records" my parents used to buy me).
Of course, with this having come full-circle in my life, I've got complete faith cassette decks will be big again. (They've just GOT to be, right?!) C'mon, Auto Reverse was an amazing breakthrough, I really don't think it got the appreciation it deserved.
So, in the wake of the Turntable Revolution, let's start an Occupy the Ghetto movement to bring back the blaster!
(I may or may not still have my El DeBarge cassette ready to rock when that day comes...)
With the influx of reality shows these days, it can be hard to discern which ones are worth watching and which ones are being used as low-grade fillers until something more substantial comes along.
I used to be a reality show junkie. And even then, junkie's a stretch by today's standards. I watch The Bachelor. (Really hate to admit that one.)
And Dog the Bounty Hunter. I loves me some bail-bond-hoppin' criminal take-downs.
And Celebrity Apprentice.
And Hoarders.
And Intervention.
(And I'm a little miffed that they pulled Steven Seagal: Lawman.)
Ok, so we've pretty much determined that I am a semi-junkie when it comes to reality TV. Only I tend to prefer watching circumstances play out that I wouldn't typically witness in everyday life. (Why I would watch Jersey Shore is beyond me - I could just check out my 'hood!) So clearly, I'm not in any position to judge shows of which I've decided my brain cells don't need to be burdened with unnecessary processing. But it would appear to moi, the reality TV quasi-junkie, that the quality of this breed of show seems to have plummeted (Flavor Flav? The Kardashian shenanigans? Really?).
However, in the barrage of this genre of programming, one has come along that has resonated with me.
Long Island Medium entered its second season in March of this year, and unlike other mediums on the tele, charismatic clairvoyant Theresa Caputo invites the audience into her home, giving us a chance to acknowledge this fascinating phenomenon isn't some Morticia-esque el-creepo; rather, she is just your typical (hot) wife and mom. Only her job is a tad unconventional.
She channels the dead and shares their messages with loved ones they left behind.
And her hutzpah adds life to an otherwise grave topic.
And I love it. Everything about the show is magnetic.
(Also, I may or may not have developed a teensy little crush on her motorcycle-lovin' hubby Larry. Eye candy never hurt anyone, right?!)
So, aside from the fact that this show is a refreshing change from the insanity we've been assaulted with as a viewing audience, I especially appreciate it, seeing as how I encountered a similar experience.
Years ago, a girlfriend and I decided, on a whim, to visit a local medium. Neither of us had been before, it was just something fun and different to try.
We booked the appointment with the psychic medium (who admitted she worked under an alias), and showed up at her small, candle-lit dwelling a couple of days later (the street address was 666).
I wasn't going into the session a skeptic per se; I just wasn't expecting much.
No - scratch that - I didn't know what to expect.
The medium (her name - either alias or legal escapes me) was sure not to allow me my usual small talk pleasantries. In fact, she would shut us down when one of us tried to make conversation with her as she prepared the room and explained the intricacies of what she does.
She told us that we were lucky to have come in a pair, that typically a session is so involved, the person being read would be so caught up in it, they wouldn't be able to retain all the info once they left. This way, having arrived as a duo, I could take notes for my friend when she was being read, and she would do the same for me.
Good suggestion, coming as a twosome. This experience was, by far, the most surreal moment of my life. I absolutely required back-up.
It wasn't a Theresa Caputo-style reading, in that none of my dearly departed stepped forward. Nor did anyone from the other side come through for my friend. Instead, the medium said she had a spirit friend, David, who actually did the readings and subsequently conveyed the messages to his medium connection. (David has a story, but I can't recall details - I just remember being more freaked out with the possibility of him following me home. The medium said he might do that if he found someone he liked. Now THERE'S a good way to ensure I didn't get a good night's sleep for the next month or two.)
I'm not going to go into detail about what was said, obviously. But I will say this: she knew things about me and my family that my good friend taking notes for me never knew.
For an hour and a half, she would throw out names, phrases, pleasant and modest visions of my future, and all these little tidbits were scrawled feverishly by my girlfriend on the looseleaf that was provided.
To this day, those 2 full, double-sided papers, written in my friend's handwriting, have been as much a staple in my ever-changing wallet fashions as my credit cards and drivers licence.
I'll admit that there are still a few of those phrases that haven't melded with me (yet) ....(she did mention she saw me on a catamaran, so I'm still holding out hope that THAT'll come true). But I like to, every now and then, pull out those decade-old pages and reflect, reminisce, and attempt to connect the dots that she mysteriously laid out.
I haven't visited a medium since. That's not to say I wouldn't, I just...haven't.
And ever since Long Island Medium made it's debut, I've been hooked. I can relate to both sides - the skeptics and the believers, because, well, I guess I was almost kinda there. I did sorta play both roles.
That's why I am so enamoured with this particular brand of reality TV. For all intents and purposes, skeptic or not, the emotions are real. It's not something you'd typically see everyday. It's a beautiful concept of bridging the gap and healing wounds, and, deep down, guaranteed, everyone wishes they could just happen to shop at the same store as Theresa Caputo and encounter one of her random "cold calls".
(Unlike many other reality shows, where no one wishes they were the target of attention of the show's star - who wishes they would be tackled by Dog?....I mean anyone else besides me?)
(And did I mention Theresa's silver fox husband Larry? Yeowza!)
And I don't think David followed me home from my reading so many years ago, but if he did, he's probably the one who made me find Theresa Caputo's show in the first place. (Y'know, he probably likes that sorta programming. In fact, I'll bet David's responsible for me watching The Bachelor, too. Yeah. That's it.)
Long Island Medium: 2 very enthusiastic well-manicured, 4" nail'd thumbs up, and an accompanying jaw-dropping Oh my God!
Jem and the Holograms was, hands down, my favourite cartoon.
Not just because Jem was a hardcore rocker chick who knew how to kill it on stage (and her boyfriend Rio was pretty easy on the eyes, too), but girl had it together.
By day, she's your average, unassuming Jerrica Benton, manager/owner of Starlight Music. By night (or showtime, whatever time of day beckons her performing persona), she is Jem - lead singer, rock group front-woman, and hologram, summoned by commanding Synergy (a holographic computer, of course) via remote micro-projectors in her earrings (obviously).
The 3D projection of Jem can also create fellow holograms around her (by way of her earrings, too - fashion AND functionality!) and together they are a band of musical holographic hotties.
This was back in 1985.
And aside from creating the winning combo of unnatural hair colours + music = success (in case you're wondering why Nicki Minaj makes sense), Jem and the Holograms pioneered what could very well become common practice.
Jerrica Benton's dad was the brainchild behind Synergy (which was designed to be "the ultimate audio-visual entertainment synthesizer"), and I'll bet that never in a million years would he've conceived of the notion that his truly outrageous invention could potentially create a trend in the future of stage shows.
Well guess what, Mr. Benton? It only took 24 years from the time your daughter's group disbanded to the moment your vision was brought to life, in front of millions of eager entertainment-hungry Coachella fans around the world.
Although the technology behind Tupac Shakur's holographic performance at the annual music and arts festival wasn't quite conjured up by a Synergy subsidiary, the result was just as compelling.
Earlier this week the Wall Street Journal reported that the technology used to bring Tupac back is actually based on a 19th century visual effect known as Pepper's Ghost...The back-in-the-day optical optical illusion is pulled off with an angled piece of glass on which an image is reflected. "A piece of glass can be both transparent and reflective at the same time, depending on how it's situated relative to the audience," (illusion designer Jim) Steinmeyer told the Wall Street Journal...In the case of the Dr. Dre-orchestrated 'Pac performance, a Mylar screen was used instead of glass. An HD overhead projector shot a moving computer-generated image of the rapper onto a reflective surface on the stage floor. The moving image was then bounced up onto the Mylar screen, which was angled so the crowd wouldn't notice. -- Rob Markman, rapfix.mtv.com.
The holographic technology used to create Tupac's posthumous concert appearance created such a thrill in concert-goers, and now the potential to build on this momentum seems to be swelling.
Fleeting mentions of a Tupac tour (Tusoon?) have been thrown about. Why stop at the 'Pac?
At first, I thought it seemed borderline hokey. And then I thought, "Damn, I'd cut out one of my own kidneys and hand it over to the underground market myself if I thought I could see all four Beatles play a show*."
What IS the future of the live show then? Forget bigger amps and pinker hair - I'm thinkin' MJ's comeback tour could very well become a "reality".
The future of the industry aside, we should pay our respects to the pioneers of this potential, the true JEM of this exciting "new" direction.
(*disclaimer: I will not be removing any of my organs, nor will I support any other persons or groups in their endeavours to extract it themselves. !!!)
SoundTracking: Fading Like A Flower (Roxette) - yep, bought my tickets during the pre-sale today! September 7th! Just a little stoked!
I was 13 yrs old. At the zenith of my hair-brush-mic, lip-sync-in-the-mirror performances.
I had already nailed Mariah Carey's Vision of Love, and thanks to MuchMusic (Canada's answer to MTV), I knew, visually, how to successfully incorporate the nuances that made a performer a performer - the smiles and glances to acknowledge your back-up singers, the head nod to the guitarist when he busts out a killer riff. Heck, I even came up with a few of my own extraordinary moves (the "flip-and-whip-your-mic-in-the-air-and-catch-it-on-the-beat-and-keep-singing-without-mishap").
That one took lots of practice.
I even had a scenario: it would be the end of the lunch hour in the school gymnasium, which would be packed with students who were wrapping up with intramurals. And as they were putting away the sporting equipment, I would climb up on stage, grab a mic and just start singing. Or it would be a Talent Show at some Sunday afternoon tea (in the school gymnasium). Some students would do lame magic tricks for the parents and staff, some kids would play an instrument. But I would take the mic, despite the perplexed look of my peers ("What? Is Cat gonna sing?").
Or a school dance (in the gym).
Or an assembly.
It didn't matter - it was always the gymnasium, and no matter the scenario, there was always - ALWAYS - a talent scout there. (WHY NOT.)
And I would blow everyone away with my Whitney Houston-esque vocal abilities.
After the initial shock of the crowd hearing moi singing subsided, they would uproariously cheer and clamour for more, and I would be signed on the spot by the fedora-wearing talent scout and whisked away in the limo that was waiting outside the gym, taking me straight to the recording studio to begin my lifelong singing career (this is pre-Idol days here, folks - I was clearly way ahead of my time).
But I grew tired of Mariah's octave-jumping and trying to pull off Bryan Adams' tunes. I needed some new inspiration.
And then, it happened.
Roxette's Joyride album was released.
And NOW I instantly had an imaginary partner - I WAS PART OF A DUO.
But this was different - this music, the blending of harmonies, their unique look and distinct sound - this was special.
This took the whole fictional-gymnasium-singing experience to an entirely new level. Now I found myself incorporating the air guitar and air keyboards. And I was good.
I developed an instant love affair with this Swedish sensation and their poppy brand of ear candy. Of course I'd heard their music before. My brother (though he may now deny it) owned Look Sharp! (which housed such hits as The Look, Dangerous, and Dressed for Success, and which I inevitably "borrowed without intent of returning"). But now, with Joyride, I was a bonafide fan. Hooked.
Next thing ya know, my hair brush became replaced with shampoo bottles (suddenly I was on tour - got some confidence, wasn't just singing in my room anymore), remote controls, bottles of salad dressing - whatever was in reach when Roxette came on the radio.
I bought all their cassette singles. I religiously played nothing but their music. Per and I were an absolute HIT when I'd bring him up on stage in the school gymnasium. And when I was outta line, and my parents had to enforce discipline, they knew how to really put a stranglehold on my independence: "Hand over your Roxette tapes." My dad was ruthless, I thought. I always kept one or two singles behind to listen to quietly at night.
And then, something happened - something so unexpected and unfathomable and wonderful and sleepless-night-inducing: Roxette announced a worldwide tour, including Winnipeg! February 22, 1992!
My very first concert (well, technically this would have been my second concert, but I'm not counting Roy Orbison - I was 4 or 5yrs old when my parents brought me along to that show). For weeks leading up to this momentous event, my diary was FULL of newspaper clippings about the upcoming show, pictures of Per Gessle (the Rox in Roxette), lyrics to my favourite Roxette songs that I felt were relevant to the day I'd had at school - anything that would have/could have been related to the show. I recall my dad waking me up on the morning of concert day, opening my bedroom door and doing his rendition of Joyride with his infamous shoulder-shrugging, finger gunpoint dance.
I'm pretty sure I didn't eat all day. Was too excited. Not knowing what to expect, not being able to fully comprehend the fact that, in just a few short hours, I would be witnessing a show of such magnitude that I would be forever changed. My music idols would be breathing the same air as me. Mind = blown.
Show time. I would have peed my pants with excitement - heck, I probably did - and wouldn't have even cared. I was at a concert. A Roxette concert. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Beyond anything I could have ever dreamed up. Giant beach balls were crowd surfing the masses at the Winnipeg Arena, skimming the fingertips of cheering fans as colours, lights and sounds swirled around me. My favourite songs were being played out in front of me, filling my eardrums with such bass never before experienced, on a sound system that was a bajillion times louder than the little ghetto blaster that sat on top of my dresser back home.
That sound would leave my ears ringing for days, and my emotions soaring high for weeks.
Marie came out on stage wearing a Winnipeg Jets jersey for Dressed For Success. I still didn't care about hockey, but at least now I wouldn't be so dismissive of it going forward. (Marie Fredriksson wore a Jets jersey! Cool!)
I was getting pushed by the people behind me as they danced and threw their arms up in excitement. I probably pushed people in front of me for the same reason.
It was surreal. Pure unadulterated ecstasy.
And then the show ended. And us Joyriders went home and tried to sleep that night, still reeling from excitement. And then days and weeks came and went, and with the passage of time came new loves (Bono, for one).
As the years passed, the Joyride posters were replaced with certificates and awards. I pushed Roxette aside, but never forgetting what they were to me - what they did for me.
Fast forward 20 years - my former obsession has resurfaced.
Roxette is touring - and after 20 years, they are coming back to Winnipeg.
I find myself cautiously giddy; as my first ever concert experience, and remembering the frenzied bliss it brought, I am reluctant to taint the memory with a Roxette show I may not appreciate as much. They've released albums since Tourism (the follow-up to Joyride) that I neglected to check out. The 33yr old Cat is a bit more frugal - I would put money down in a heartbeat for a Roxette show that is guaranteed to mimic the experience I had 2 decades ago. What if I don't know half the songs they perform? Won't it be a disappointment? Maybe I should just leave my Roxette-ness to revel in the memory of what used to be.
It's been YEARS since I've listened to their songs.
But as I sit here, revisiting Roxette with YouTube clips, I notice my fingers finding the familiar staccato of the notes as I play the imaginary keyboard that was, just moments ago, my kitchen table.
I can still sing along, word for word, without missing a beat. I realize this music is just like an old friend, we can pick up right where we left off. It's as though no time has passed between us.
The 33yr old Cat may be reluctant.
But the 13yr old Cat is looking for the nearest hair brush - time to play Marie again...
I don't sing at karaoke (unaided by alcohol, anyway). I barely sing in my car.
But I sing to Roo every night.
And she always requests the same lullaby - Golden Slumbers. That's my girl.
She's at a point now where she could just sing it to me, but instead, she lines up all her "babies" (her stuffed animals) so that everyone can hear the "show".
Last night, she interrupted the song because Bobs needed a ticket for some popcorn (?!). And then Baby Kitty Cat needed to stretch. Once Golden Slumbers is finished, Bingo (as per usual) requested Hey Jude, and Purpy needed to hear Let It Be before she went to sleep.
After the performance, I kissed Roo (and all her babies) good night, closed her door halfway (at Baby Jaguar's request), and hunkered down around the corner on the couch in the living room, waiting for what usually follows: about 20 minutes of her climbing out of bed and sneaking out of her room to peek around the corner at me, waiting for me to catch a glimpse of her, smile (which I typically do, and she knows this, because it's just s'darn adorable), and taking advantage of this free pass to meander into the living room and climb up on the couch beside me.
And, as expected, last night was no exception.
Only this time, I managed to keep the camera poised and ready to capture the slumber-less slumber my lullaby was supposed to induce.
And, as expected, today us girls are utter zombies.
But the memory has been made.
And now, caffeine ain't doing the trick.
Did The Beatles record a song about afternoon naps?
ADDENDUM: It has been brought to my attention that The Beatles HAVE, in fact, recorded a song that most appropriately reflects my current state of mind (thanks Chris!)
SoundTracking: I'm So Tired (The Beatles) (on REPEAT) ;)
I've had the absolute good fortune of participating in weekly discussions about the general evolution of rock 'n roll, spearheaded by local author and rock historian John Einarson, for the past 10 weeks.
Now, John's funnelling the focus to his homeland - reigning rock music in from a worldwide scope down to Manitoba's relevance in, and contribution to, the scene.
Shakin' All Over: The Manitoba Music Experience will explore the roots of popular music in the province including rock 'n roll, country, blues, folk, aboriginal and jazz.
I wanted to spread the word to anyone in the area who might be interested in participating in this fascinating four week foray that delves into the roots of MB music from the 1950s up to present day.
Just as I predicted, I found more chocolates than my daughter did.
;)
Also half-way through tackling what didn't appear to be a Martha Stewart-esque dessert at first, and had I known it was so involved, I would have agreed to something simpler instead - say, store-bought pie (with the packaging discarded so I can take full credit, obviously). But we're at the mid-point now of this ridiculously fancy cake, and nothing has spontaneously combusted yet.
Yet.
And to round out my morning, I was lucky enough to acquire a copy of an EXTREMELY rare Guess Who bootleg, and with a currently empty house and cranked speakers, I'm able to successfully work on my air drums with reckless abandon.
The moment was a fleeting one, but the lesson learned has persevered.
And the lesson pretty much single-handedly destroyed what I'd spent years building up.
The message, conveyed to my 4yr old in less than a few seconds: Mommy can shove it.
In case you decide not to read the background story here, let me give you the Coles-notes version:
- last month, we met Winnipeg Jets' Blake Wheeler and Bryan Little.
What I neglected to mention in my original post about this public meet-and-greet was that Bryan Little, Jets #18, centre-extrodinaire, vandalized my property. And that reckless act led to yesterday's defacement and the excuse that accompanied it.
Jets lovers, don't hate, just stay with me here....
(I should mention this now: despite the tone of my post, I'm not AT ALL pissed off at Little - it's just fun to blame a kajillionaire for what truly was a sweet, innocent act that unpredictably led to the demise of my property!)
Rewind to St. Patrick's Day, only a mere few weeks ago. Despite the meltdown Roo went through over not getting to wear her Christmas dress, I made sure she showed up to the meet-and-greet at the Winnipeg Pet Rescue Shelter in her brand spankin' new Jets jersey.
Like, BRAND new. Just cut the tags off that morning.
By the time us gals showed up, we were shuttled to the front of the line. Our hands were stamped, our donation to the shelter was made, and while trying to juggle our stuff around and pull out of our bags what we were going to get signed, Roo decided she would become concerned that the lady who stamped her hand had stamped TOO hard.
A true kerfuffle ensued! The line was moving quickly, people were getting processed and moved along like Big Macs at a McD's drive-thru during the lunch rush. While still attempting to manage everything, before we knew it, it was OUR turn. I was trying to get my phone out to snap a few pics (for posterity's sake and bragging rights), and, simultaneously, trying to convince Roo that she DIDN'T need to go back to the end of the line to get a NEW stamp on her hand. Before I knew it, we were up. Show time. Roo and I had been practicing her GO JETS GO! chant in the car all the way there, but instead of impressing the athletes with her adorable raving fan-ability, all she could do was complain to Bryan Little about the stamp on her hand!
Lemme say this: both guys were great. Patient, cordial, friendly - if there was any arrogance that accompanies fandom, they either suppressed it or lack it completely. I was quite impressed. So while I was getting my Jets t-shirt out for them to sign, and while Roo was nattering to Little about the stamp, he, in a very pleasant and kind manner, with a big ol' million watt smile, leaned across the table and said, "Do you want me to sign your jersey?"
Now I really should have that talk with my 4yr old about not always saying YES to questions that complete strangers ask her. But anyway, that's what she did.
And so that's what he did.
He leaned across the table, Sharpie in hand, and signed her jersey.
Of course, I don't mind. In fact, I'm glad one of us thought to get that done; however, in retrospect, what if I was saving that jersey to be autographed by someone else? (I wasn't...) But he just took it upon himself to put his Herbie Hancock, in permanent ink, on my daughter's clothing!
(Calm down, Jets fans, I jest - I love that Little did that! Again, if you can't poke fun at kajillionaires, who can you poke fun at?)
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon.
Things became awfully quiet when Roo was, only moments before, laughing it up with one of her games while I was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. When the silence was a bit too much to bear, I called out to her.
"Mommy! Come see what I did!" she responded, just bursting with excitement.
Never words you want to hear your 4 yr old say after they've been quiet for a while.
Followed her into the office and found this:
My first instinct, oddly enough, was to laugh (NEVER let them see you even remotely smirk with this kinda stuff - that opens up a whole new world of unintentional hurt for your furniture, your walls, anything that could use the Roo touch!).
But instead, I hid that irresistible culprit of a permanent marker. And then I took the pic. (And then I turned my back to her and tried my hardest to NOT let her hear me laugh.)
I was sure I told her this when she first began colouring: paper. Only on paper. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
So then we sat down and talked about it.
"Now listen Pumpkin: markers, pens, crayons, pencil crayons, sharpies - all that stuff is JUST for paper, ok? Never use them on anything else, promise?"
Roo responded without hesitation: "Not even on clothes, Mommy?"
"Noooo, not on clothes at all, ever."
"But what about that man with the pen at the place where the puppies were and then he put his name on my shirt? He used marker on clothes, so I can use marker on clothes, too, right, Mommy?"
Sigh.
In my own personal battle with Little (again, because he's super sweet and crazy rich and ridiculously talented and my conflict is completely unwarranted but I'm curious to see how long this lasts), Bryan Little: 2, Me: 0.
The diverse range of human activities, and the products of those processes, is an artistic expression of emotion. Art doesn't always have to be something tangible. I believe you don't always have to experience it with one of your five (or six, if you're Haley Joel Osment) senses. If it provokes passion or sentiment, it's art.
Forgiveness and the admittance of guilt is, to me, an art. The ability is in us all, but not all of us choose to explore, apply, and appreciate the beauty of it.
For me, yesterday, I indulged in the art of release.
Of redemption.
And I feel at LEAST 27lbs lighter.
With the realization that immortality is reserved for Larry King and vampires, I've decided to heed Dr. Phil's formidable question, "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?" and "So how's that workin' out for you?".
So yesterday, I decided I'd pull up my socks, set aside my pride and deal with what had been subconsciously bringing me down for so long. And today, I woke up feeling such a wave of peace and happiness (that I'd forgotten existed on this level) wash over me, and I'm grateful for the joy I can carry with me to the grave. (That "wave" could also be attributed to the meds, but for the purposes of this blog post, I'm going with Forgiveness for $800, Alex.) ;)
The reason I'm sharing this is because I have faced the reality that life can turn on a dime, and there are too many people living with the unnecessary pain of regret and guilt.
Forgiveness is freeing. It's healing. It's a personal and deeply effective experience that can change your life.
And despite the new-found joy I am living, my only regret is that I wasted so much time not having done this all sooner.
(Disclaimer: this does NOT apply to the crazy aunt who bought you that shitty sweater for Christmas. She can go to hell.) ;)
I still believe all you need is love, but I don't believe that just saying it is going to do it. I still believe in the fact that love is what we all need.
In the middle of a gigglefest with little Roo, while I was rockin' supper on the stove, she asked what I was making.
"Hello Kitty stew," I said, straight-faced, adding that I was missing one main ingredient. I gave her a few seconds to deduce what I was talking about before she broke into a fit of laughter and condescension. "Hello Kitty isn't an ingredient, Mommy!"
She said it with such a tone of disdain in her voice that I decided to stick it to her as I got up from the couch and proceeded into her bedroom. She followed, naturally, but her belly-laughing slowed her down from catching up as I plucked Hello Kitty from Roo's bed and brought the pink plush into the kitchen.
I had a few moments to hide Kitty in the cupboard while I rattled the lid on the pot on the stove. By the time Roo made her way into the kitchen, Hello Kitty was nowhere to be seen, and the covered pot on the stove was bubbling violently under its lid.
A few nervous giggles ensued, and then I pulled chicken fingers out of the oven.
"I don't want (inaudible mumbling) Hello Kitty!" she exclaimed suddenly, through gigantor insta-tears. OY! I jumped up to grab the stuffed feline down from inside the cupboard, and showed her I was just teasing - Roo curled up in my lap and just sobbed.
It was very reminiscent of the time, nearly 4 yrs ago (check out the pic), when we took her to the zoo - her FIRST zoo experience - and a peacock cawed (or whatever sound it is arrogant asshole peacocks make to scare infants) at her.
Only this time, tonight, I was responsible for her making that cute-but-not-cute scrunched up face full of tears.
(It really kinda was quite cute...)
I felt like such a jerk mom. I promised to buy her a pony.
Anyhoo, I found one of them. One of my old blogs. After tonight's loss, and the official confirmation the Winnipeg Jets are outta the running for the playoffs (insert pouty face here), I subconsciously stumbled upon this long-lost find - it's a post about the first-ever NHL game I attended.
I'd all but forgotten about it. Not that it wasn't memorable per se. I had just set the memory of it aside.
It was January 2006 - a time before the notion that the Jets were coming back was even a blip on Dono's radar, we took a trip out to Ottawa to catch a Senators game (Dono's team of choice).
I was not a hockey fan. I really was just going along for the sight-seeing.
I think my revisiting this memory is significant, because it's the start of my journey from a "what the heck does offside mean?" non-hockey fan to present-day "what the heck does offside mean?" home team enthusiast.
Instead of posting a direct link to the old blog in question, I've just decided to pull the ol' copy-and-past trick here.
So now, as someone who, after 33 years, has finally made her dad proud to claim all 3 of his children as hockey fans, I give you:
Fresh Legs and a Fresh Man - the story of Gropey McJazz-Hands
I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to a man Donovan and I have cleverly - and appropriately - dubbed Gropey McJazz-Hands.
Gropey is a man that I had the (mis?)fortune of sitting beside at the newly-named Scotiabank Centre (the arena formerly known as the Corel Centre) for the Ottawa Senators game on Monday night.
Now Gropey started off a quiet, simple man, joining us in the 300 section of the arena just after the first period started, taking the empty seat on my right. He was your typical Senators fan - donning his Sens jacket and matching cap with pride. His elderly charm became apparent, and was enjoyed immensely by Donovan and myself, whenever our home team made a good play: instead of clapping, he would raise his arms up in a perfect 90-degree angle perpendicular to his body, and give the Sens an approving display of jazz hands while shouting words like "Fabulous!", "Wonderful!", and "Absolutely splendid!"
As the first period came to an end, Donovan and I stood up and prepared to leave our seats for a few minutes, and Gropey decided to stand up and leave his seat, too. But he didn't leave before (and this is how he got his name) putting his hand on my side and sliding it down to my hip for an extended, and completely unnecessary, amount of time.
"Donovan, that man is groping me," I whispered in Donovan's ear, as I urged him along the line of people to get me out of Gropey's engrossing grasp. "What the? I'm gonna say something!" Donovan chivalrously replied. "No, it's ok, let's just go," I begged.
So we left our seats, and Gropey went his seperate way.
We didn't see him again until the start of the 3rd period.
This time, the sweet and once-charming old Gropey we first came to know and love was no longer...this time, Gropey had turned into a drunken and completely obnoxious "fan", who reeked of booze and whose jazz-hands could now be likened to out of control grand mal seizures! His arms no longer stayed at the once-familiar 90-degree angle - oh no, they were straight up in the air, and everytime he waived his jazz-hands, he screamed like a maniac.
"YEEEAAAHHHH!!!!! HOORAY!!!"
Those jazz-hands were just a-going!
Then something happened - Donovan and I aren't sure what was going on on the ice - but Gropey decided to lean over me, his hand on my thigh, as he slurred to Donovan above the noise of the crowds around us, "They took it back! Did you see that? They must have gone upstairs and complained!"
"Yeah, I guess so, " Donovan replied, admitting to me that he had no idea what Gropey was talking about. He spied Gropey's hand on my leg, and again begged me to let him say something, or at least switch seats with him, but I declined, citing the end of the game was near as my reason for staying put.
And that's when "Fresh Legs" comes into play....Gropey was very pleased with himself, that, despite his gross intoxication, he was still able to commentate the game from his seat to the people around him (namely Donovan and I).
"See that? They're playing smart....they put those fresh legs out on the ice now, that's some smart playing. Those fresh legs are smart. Look at those smart, fresh legs go!"
FRESH LEGS!!!!
So cut to the end of the game - the Sens are in the lead 4-3 with a few seconds to spare. 3...2...1...the buzzer sounds, and excitement fills the arena as Sens fans harmoniously jump to their feet and cheer! Donovan and I leap out of our seats and high five each other - then Gropey leans in and high fives Donovan (and we're talking the double high-five here, both hands...too bad Gropey was too drunk to hit either of Donovan's hands!). So I turn to Gropey (he's standing right there, looking at me...I have to do something....)....awkward pause....the world seems to slow down and almost come to a complete stop. But you know what, I say to myself, this is a hockey game, and here's just a drunk fan having fun, and we had fun laughing at him.
I laugh and open my arms to embrace him - hey, why not, good times were had by all and our team won - and that's when the grope of all gropes happened.
He grabbed my boob and pretty much hung on for a few seconds.
Too much in shock - and afraid of the fight that would ensue if I told Donovan - I just moved away and pushed Donovan out through the throngs of people, as far away from Gropey as we could get!
And that was the last we saw of Gropey!
Good thing I came across that old post....what a great memory to relive....I feel kinda cheap (and oddly enough, pretty damn good about myself, too.........)
I tried to blur out the edges around it to make it more easily visible.
That ginormous black spot on the upper left side of the pic? Look close.
Yup. That's a bug.
Oh sure, he LOOKS tiny and harmless.
But you can't make out all the tentacles and gross little beady eyes in this pic.
And why the hell is he hanging out on the ceiling above MY side of the bed? He's up to no good.
Thankfully Dono (husband/exterminator) is home sick today. He's takin' care of business.
I cannot kill bugs. It's not like I'm a nature-lover or one with all beings or whatever. Bugs just gross me out. So where I fail in controlling the bug population, Dono picks up the slack.
When he's not home, however, and I'm faced with a mocking multipede, and the vacuum cleaner's not within the general vicinity of the culprit, and when there's no Windex (or other toxic chemical in a spray bottle) in sight, I come up with other ways to ensure my personal space is bug-free.
Outta sight, outta mind.
And Dono loves feeling like a knight when he comes home to slay the beast. It's a win-win.
In the December 2001 issue of Penthouse, Mitch Hedberg was asked "If you could choose, how would you end your life?" His response: "First, I'd want to get famous, and then I'd overdose. If I overdose at this stage in my career, I would be lucky if it made the back pages."
Three years later, as if a self-fulfilled prophecy, the comedian with the cult following was found dead in a hotel room in Livingston, New Jersey. Cause of death: "multiple drug toxicity" in the form of cocaine and heroin.
Today marks the anniversary of his death.
The news of his passing wasn't formally announced until April 1, 2005, leading many to believe it was an April Fool's joke, only to discover that, of course, it was not.
I regret not having heard of Hedberg until a few years after his passing (I would have loved to have subscribed to the cult, followed him on tour, shook the man's hand). But (thank god for YouTube showing me what I otherwise never knew about), since discovering Hedberg and his signature comedic delivery of his absurd one-liner brand of observational humour, I am hooked.
Hedberg occasionally added disclaimers to the end of a joke to let the audience know that he shared their judgement of it, most notably acknowledging when jokes were poorly delivered or received with a resigned "all right." He also toyed with the audiences that failed to respond in the way he had intended them to, occasionally quipping, "That joke's better than you acted." During recordings for CDs, he would often say that he would find a way to edit a failed gag to make it seem well received, for example by "adding laughter" to a failed joke containing arithmetic. Following such a failure on Strategic Grill Locations, Hedberg suggested, "All right... that joke is going to be good because I'm going to take all the words out and add new words. That joke will be fixed." - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitch_Hedberg
Today, March 30, I want to remember Mitch - a man who, because of stage fright, often performed while wearing sunglasses, with his head down and hair in his face, or his eyes closed so that he could avoid eye contact with the audience; who couldn't control the nervous shaking of his hands as he'd hold the microphone.
Who, with a unique presence and occasionally flubbed jokes, was on the rise. He was gonna be big. Before his death, Hedberg released three CDs, all of which I've heard many times over. His style was unparalleled.
I can only imagine what kinda stuff he'd be coming up with today - Lord knows the world's full of enough material for a freakin' anthology of Hedberg humour.
If you're new to the legacy of Mitch, then read on and check out a few of his classics (these will never get old):
I went to a record store, they said they specialized in hard-to-find records. Nothing was alphabetized.
I have a vest. If I had my arms cut off, it would be a jacket.
I had one anchovy, that's why I didn't have two anchovies.
I saw a lady on T.V. She was born without arms. Literally, she was born with her hands attached to her shoulders... and that was sad, but then they said, "Lola does not know the meaning of the word 'can't.'" And that to me was kinda worse... in a way... ya know? Not only does she not have arms, but she doesn't understand simple contractions. It's very simple, Lola, you just take two words, you put them together, then you take out the middle letter, you put a comma in there and you raise it up!
An escalator can never break--it can only become stairs. You would never see an "Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience. We apologize for the fact that you can still get up there."
Sometimes in the middle of the night, I think of something that's funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen's too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain't funny.
You know, I'm sick of following my dreams, man. I'm just going to ask where they're going and hook up with 'em later.
I went to a pizzeria, I ordered a slice of pizza, the fucker gave me the smallest slice possible. If the pizza was a pie chart for what people would do if they found a million dollars, the fucker gave me the "donate it to charity" slice. I would like to exchange this for the "keep it!"
I was walking by a dry cleaner at 3 a.m., and it said "Sorry, we're closed." You don't have to be sorry. It's 3 a.m., and you're a dry cleaner. It would be ridiculous for me to expect you to be open. I'm not gonna walk by at 10 a.m. and say, "Hey, I walked by at 3, you guys were closed. Someone owes me an apology. This jacket would be halfway done!"
And of course, a couple of clips of the man doing what he did best:
SoundTracking: Mitch All Together (Mitch Hedberg comedy)
After all, it's because of his music that mankind was able to achieve space travel.
(Find ONE report that denies this.)
Ok, moon-walking aside, the birth of rock 'n roll in the 1950s fed into the emerging social culture of teen rebellion. The older generation fought against the uprise of "the devil music", but parents pitted against transistor radios always lost out to the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard.
This new wave of defiance required a soundtrack, and the music responded accordingly. (Elvis, of course, being the King of Rock, is the iconic representation of this evolution.)
Years later, in the turbulence of the 60s, the experimental sounds from musicians like Bob Dylan, The Byrds, and Buffalo Springfield laced the charts with songs about revolution and protests to question the state of society and empower people to make a difference.
Music carried a message to induce change.
People united and protested for peace.
The Byrds' Turn! Turn! Turn! and CCR's Fortunate Son have been a staple in my collection since my mixed tape days. Not because of their lyrics, but rather, they're damn good songs. Musically.
(Now that I'm older, of course, I can appreciate their subject matter.)
Fast forward ahead a few decades (catapulting over the 90s - sorry Gin Blossoms and Better Than Ezra) to a brand spankin' new century.
A new culture, spoiled by commercialism, where over-indulgence has become the norm.
A time riddled with what I like to call "first world problems" (lunch-hour botox injections, anyone?).
And a new generation of music to reflect it all.
At the helm of today's popular music, a universal theme: boy-meets-girl-boy-falls-in-love (but the context has changed - I haven't tried this yet, but if you played The Beach Boys' Wouldn't It Be Nice to a group of teens who listen to - what do kids listen to these days?! - the innocence of the lyrics would blow. Their. Minds.).
But my point is this: war is not over.
Global unrest is abundant.
Telethons raising money for natural disasters don't put a lid on fear, horror and agony.
The era of the 60s protests movements in the U.S. produced legendary songs with lyrics that could very well be transposed to today's global circumstances, and proved there seems to be an undeniable link between music and political movements, so my question is this:
Where are the protest songs of today?
I know these songs exist. Of course they do - Green Day has an anti-war song. So does Lenny Kravitz. But I've never turned on the radio and heard them played in regular rotation. Why are these songs so sparse? Why is it that mainstream media pays no attention to this brand of theme? What has changed about the world that we aren't inundated with a slew of songs about peace and love and uniting a nation? I can't speak from experience on growing up in the 60s (that time was such a blur for everyone, wasn't it....?!?!), but from what I gather, my research and discussions dictate these protest songs were as revered, appreciated, loved and commonplace in that era as, say, Justin Bieber's Baby might be in THIS era.
Music icons of decades past have moulded the Western world - maybe if the Beebs sang "C'mon people now, smile on your brother, ev'rybody get together, try to love one another right now", he, too, could be the voice to empower the generation and make a difference.
And it's a blatant, sad discovery I stumbled upon as I gazed outside while unloading the dishwasher: I am a hypocrite.
Normally this wouldn't bother me so much, but this particular revelation of hypocrisy, in this particular way, left me stunned.
MY delightful candy cane lights that brighten up the front pathway at Christmastime are out, on my fence, in MARCH. What are they even DOING there? Were they on their way to storage and whoever was putting them away got tired from hauling the 0.4lb-total load, stopped to hang them on the fence to take a breather, and then got distracted by a butterfly or something?
This may not be a big deal to anyone else, but it's pretty huge for me.
ME, the one who bitches out loud to no one in particular about the pumpkin garbage bags I see on people's yards as I drive by, or the cupid window decals on neighbour's houses. "Take down your GD decorations, what the hell's the matter with you!"
ME, who told Donovan, "Those people must be dead or trapped in their basement under a bookcase, what other reason do they have for not taking down that wreath on their front door?", who was half-consdering registering www.howhardcanitbetotakedownyourdecorations.com - I have this scene staring back at me as I look out the window!
I'm gonna go do something about it!
After I finish baking cookies.....
.....and after it stops raining.....but by then it could be dark already.....and Donovan has to make space in the garage....but then I have to move my SUV for that, and it's kinda cold....HEY, lookit that pretty butterfly fluttering around out there....
I know the term has come a long way in the past few years, and has since transcended the cookie-cutter image of the stained-sweat-pants-wearing, wood-panelled-mini-van-driving, puffy-eyed, thermos-full-of-SunnyD-drinking mom.
But that image still sticks with me from my days on the field as a young North Kildonan Cobra who watched the stressed out mothers yelling at their kids (and the other kids, and each other), smoking cigarettes and eating a bag of salt 'n vinegar chips.
Typical? Or was it just my soccer club?
Anyway, I've decided I'm gonna bring a new look to the sidelines.
"I'm pretty sure I didn't just hear you dis my 4 yr old's kicking ability, am I right?"
SoundTracking: The Jets game! Tied at 3 going into the 3rd...
I may be decades removed from my award-winning performance of Anne Murray's Snowbird at my very first Tauber's Kawai Music Festival (I rocked the organ, and created arrangements like a pro), but despite the exorbitant hiatus, my love for the keys has never waned.
That's why we picked me up a brand new 88-key digital piano a couple of months ago. (Yay!)
Weighted scaled hammer action tri-sensor keys for that true acoustic feel. WHAT IS A TRI-SENSOR KEY?
Music lessons never prepared me for the big wide world of the keys beyond the bass pedals and the upper and lower keyboard. Weighted keys? Sustain pedals? What gives! So now, not having been trained on the piano, this is gonna be a bit of a challenge, but I've got time, determination, passion, and a book of Beatles' music to conquer.
My goal is to be ready to rock the 2013 Tauber's festival with my piano rendition of Snowbird.
Watch out, 7-8 year olds, I'm gonna kick some piano-lovin' ass. That golden treble clef trophy's mine.
My parents have the old organ at their house, and it's always fun to tinker around now and then - teaching my little Roo how to "play" "music" - Christmas, 2010
SoundTracking: For What It's Worth (Buffalo Springfield)
To top it off, one of my favourite bands, the iconic Canadian Glass Tiger will open the show in a setting that perfectly suits my appreciation for their music - I've seen them play the casino shows a few times when they blew through town, but the volume of both crowd and music, combined with the general atmosphere, just isn't LOUD enough for my needs. Alan Frew requires more space to rock it out and jump off barricades and into the crowds to body surf while the masses sing along to Animal Heart with reckless abandon.
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