A VIDEO TO SHARE

I just found this, as my computer is finally working again. I used to love this song. The song that got airplay was "I Touch Myself", but that was in a limited bit. That song was upbeat and happy. The lyrics here are dark and dire. I was always surprised that Courtney Love didn't redo this song, actually, as her vocal range would have suited it. I thought I would share, as nobody I know has ever heard it. I collect the obscure in all things.

JUST A DEAD HOOKER?

READ THIS BOOK---MISSING SARAH---MAGGIE DE VRIES

BUY THIS BOOK---HEROINES--LINCOLN CLARKES

LEIGH MINER

APRIL REOCH---THE PROVINCE

Andrea Joesbury---The Province Paper

Well, thank goodness that Willie Pickton won't be getting a new trial. I won't get into the details here. Suffice to say that they are available and everybody knows. Let's spare the families and the tax payers that go around.

What I want to write about is what so many people thought...why it probably took so long for this guy to come to justice. They were just missing hookers, right? I mean, it's not like they were somebody's Mom in a mini-van. They sort of brought about their own demise, standing out there on the street corner? They probably would have died from a drug overdose anyways? With so many other "real" victims, why would the cops put these women as their top priority? Sadly, I could go on. There were jokes made at the time. I won't go into some the ones that I heard.

Perhaps it was the "Missing" poster itself. Many of the shots were mugshots from arrests; black and white photos under the harshed of lighting, taken in less then ideal conditions. Imagine having your headshot taken after being skinfrisked, printed and the ride in the back of a van that smells of vomit. Most likely, it's the end of the shift and the lack of drugs are starting to kick in. There's the knowledge that there's apt to be an ass kicking from the pimp for not making enough money. Worst of all, there's the prospect of spending time in a cell without drugs or the chance of a wake-up shot. Yes, smile for the camera.

I used to walk by that poster every day at work and I'd stop to look at it sometimes. I would search it to see if there were any new additions. I was looking for one face in particular. In highschool, my friend's sister had been a prostitute and heroin addict at the age of sixteen. We were living in a small town at the time and people just didn't talk about that sort of thing. If she were home, my friend knew enough to hide her gold chains and we wouldn't leave our purses around. Yet, I found her a glamourous sort of creature; me, with my bland life. She was so pretty and savvy.

Nobody deserves to be the victim of assault or abduction. Let's face it, however. When Soccer Mom disappears from the mall, people look harder. Her missing poster features her smiling, at the Christmas party and wearing nice clothes. The picture would have been selected carefully. The news media puts the story out there and people come out because they care.

It took a long time for the media to care about the missing women in Vancouver. It's incredible that so many could just disappear. These are women who are not mobile. Anybody aware of this lifestyle understands that. They are dependant on picking up their methadone at a set time and place. They don't function without it. They have very limited lives. In more ways then one, they are creatures of habit.

When the media did get involved, it all too often initially reduced them to stereotypes. They were prostitutes. I sometimes got the feeling that they wanted to make the story as gritty and sordid as possible. They would film in back alleys, making sure that the camera would pan in on the discarded rigs (needles) or catch others in the act of shooting up.

They missed a lot. Maggie de Vries wrote a fantastic book, "Missing Sarah" about her sister. Her sister was a deep, caring woman. Sarah was beautiful. I have always felt that the good looking of the world must have it easy, but I guess it isn't always so. Sarah went to some of the finest and most exclusive schools in Vancouver. She wrote poignant and insightful passages. Then, she was gone.

Many of these women were mothers who loved their kids dearly. There was always that battle between loving the drugs and the children. On some deep level they understood that they could not raise them well until the drugs were gone. Yet, they tried to keep in contact with their kids. It wasn't like them to miss meetings. It was hard for them to form these bonds. These were often women who had been beaten and assaulted as children themselves. Their's was not The Brady Bunch, but a shuffling from foster home to group home. How they hung on is incredible. Drugs would offer an escape and a coping mechanism. They hurt only themselves, unlike Pickton.

People need to confront their inner voices. Yes, someone might have preconceived notions about others based on their skin colour or occupation or life style. But, how we treat them is what matters. We need to recognize that we must not let those judgements guide us. If nothing else, let the deaths of these women do that. It breaks my heart to read that the police could have stopped this monster. He had been confronted by the cops in the past, but it was his word (a white, good 'ol boy), against that of a known prostitute. Nothing ever happened.

Check out Lincoln Clarke's web site. Many of the women that he photographed for his "Heroines" series, died. They are beautiful. They somehow shine in their surroundings. I have a signed copy of his book and I am haunted by their eyes. Understand that some of those women you see in the backstreets, especially in the notorious "kiddie stroll" are fourteen years old and strung out. This is not a fate that they chose.

Lincoln Clarkes Photography : World Wide Green Eyes

B.P. RUINED MY DAY

I was going about my life, minding my own business, when it happened. I have often said that I don't understand how people cannot be depressed unless they are shallow, simple minded or socio-pathetic. It was another picture from the oil-spill. A bird was covered with the goo.

I have been a vegetarian for 24 years. As with religion, I believe it's an issue of personal choice and I won't push it on others. However, others used to always start arguing with me on the topic. Observing my diet, they'd start talking about how people's teeth were designed to chew meat. I would get hassled at work over my refusal to wear the issue shoes and belt, as they were made of leather. For years, I bought my own and paid for them. I've never taken it upon myself to lecture anybody on their lack of birth control. I always wondered what gave them the right.

I was raised in a family of meat eaters. Trust me, it was the blandest fare going. Sorry, Mom. My father wanted his meat without spices and burnt to a cinder. My Dad is a hunter and a good shot at that. He uses every part of the animal. My family background is the fur industry. I saw what went on to make that mink and fox coat. I truly know of what I speak.

Yet, I've always felt a strong connection to animals. As a kid they'd follow me home. My mother was freaked out by one event that took place when I was in elementary school. A dog had taken up residence in our yard and I insisted that his name was "Brutus"; I just knew. Most kids would fall upon a name like Lucky or Buttons. About a week later, the rightful owner was found and the dog's name was---you guessed it----Brutus.

Our planet it a wondrous place and we are hell bent on destroying it. My random encounters with these news pictures add to my days of not wanting to dress or shower; of shutting off the phone and avoiding friends. The darkness, like the oil that is covering the gulf, seems overwhelming. Yet I know that my avoiding the paper won't mean that it isn't going on. I am not an ostrich. I just wonder how others cannot feel this too? The realization that there really isn't much to change things.

So, in the meantime, it'll be another set of days off that I sit around and listen to songs like "Moby" and "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?. I guess that loving the little creatures around us is all that we can do (see my blog about being a feline felon), and not adding to the problem.

NOT SLEEPING

I am too tired to write much. I'm on nights, not sleeping and it's hot. I did get the computer going, however. The upload thing spun for three days solid and kept turning the machine on and off. Finally, I figured it was going to crash anyways. I inserted the Installation DVD and pushed F12 reboot and something happened. Amazing.

I thought I'd list some stupid facts about myself, like I saw in a magazine article:

01) I love road trips and I have a thing for trains. I always haul my friend into train museums when we go on road trips. This is probably why he no longer books his vacation in conjunction with mine. He just doesn't get meaning out of the train with the big snow-plow in the front or the fancy-ass l950's ashtrays in the bar-car museum. If I had money, I'd love to travel across the country by train.

02) One of my photos ran on the mainpage of the "Coast-to-Coast" AM show. That's the Art Bell show, which is usually hosted by others now. Yes, I listen when I can. I guess my favourite guest is Richard Hoagland and yes, I have checked out his Enterprise website. I admit it. I'm a night-owl and a talk show person.

03) I once won a contest, as a kid, in one of those teen fan magazines. It was a big deal at the time. I got my name in the magazine, won a bit of money, a little card with an autograph and a record (a big round thing that looks like a frisbee).

04) When I was a student I had a car I couldn't afford gas for. On the rare occasions that I drove it, I would go out with a friend. Sometimes, I drove a guy she liked home. He went on to found a record company with grammy winners. Ah, my link to the rich and famous. I had a life back then.

05) I once fell into an open sewer grate. I stepped into what I thought was a puddle, and kept on going. Good thing I was holding my Mother's hand, as she yanked me back up. It was the start of my plumbing problems. I flushed a toilet in a train station (yes, trains again) in Europe as a kid, and it blew some major pipe and there was about three inches of water in a minute. As an exhange student, the first thing I did was ask to use the washroom. When I flushed, the lid blew off and water shot up and hit the ceiling. I had to figure out how to say "Il existe une probleme avec la toilette" in a hurry. I have purchased my own wire plumbing snake, rubber gloves and plunger and know how to use them.

06) I had planned on going to the Quebec Legislative Assembly building one morning to take some photos and have breakfast. I had been there earlier to sit in on the days hearing (I was a political science minor). The weather that day was crappy and my camera was cheap so I went to the mall instead. Once at the mall, I noted people around the tv store crying and watching. A guy had gone on a shooting rampage and he'd started outside the entrance to the dining area.

Well, I am hoping the Gravol has kicked in. It'll be a long shift with no sleep.

MAURY POVICH'S DAYS ARE NUMBERED

What is poor Maury Povich to do with himself? The mainstay, his life's blood has been removed from his hands and made available to the common man. No longer will the masses have to come crawling and throw themselves upon the court of public ridicule in seeking answers. Nope. The answer is as simple as wandering into your nearest drugstore.
So, just what is it that has the writers of the Maury show having to seek new topic ideas? This morning I was flipping through a magazine when I saw an advertisement for a home DNA testing kit. No, it's not a CSI kit to help you figure out if OJ did it or not. It's a paternity testing kit.
My mind instantly rattled off a long list of questions. Right off---what's the etiquette behind this? I doubt Emily Post had to deal with it. How does one go about rounding up the usual suspects? Would they advize that one make sure that firearms and alcohol are not involved?
I also suspect that this product is probably not running its ad in every magazine out there. I bet they have a target audience and it isn't the people who read "The New Yorker" or "Martha Stewart". Which of course leaves them open to accusations of stereotyping and profiling as John Edwards did have that love child in the very same manner as that grammatically challenged girl that used to run screaming off of Maury's stage when the negative results came in.
I also have to wonder what happened to shame. I guess I have to blame reality television but we seem to have confused fame with infamy. As long as our names are out there for fifteen minutes, we don't really care what the context is. Then there's the trickle down effect and what began with some slag flashing her breasts on Big Brother ends with teens posting risque photos on their Facebook page. I remember when I was in highschool. I hoped I wouldn't bump into anybody if I had to buy a box of Kotex. How do you buy a Paternity Testing Kit, especially in a small town, without everybody kknowing about it? The town cryer would find it difficult not to start a betting pool as to actual lineage. I bet the kids would be teased mercilessly in about five minutes (as that's how fast it would take for the word to get around).
I also wonder how many of these kits will be bought by the paranoid nutbar types who think their wife is cheating merely because she is being kind to the elderly 80 year old next door. Given that lab mistakes do happen, I can forsee Mr Psycho killing his wife.
Better living through chemistry? There already seems to be enough problems with reading something as simple as a home pregnancy kit. Besides, it's kind of fun trying to figure out just whether or not that eighth guy tested might be the one. I'll leave it up to Maury. Besides, how else will those people get their free, overnight stay at the Holiday Inn in Chicago?

MYSTERY FERAL---PART HAVANA BROWN?

A couple of years ago I rescued two kittens. They were already several months old and very feral. I had been feeding their mother, who was a black, short-hair. When she became pregnant again, she left the kittens in my backyard. I heard a commotion one night and I looked out. The two kittens were surrounded by five racoons. They looked at me and the open door, looked at the racoons, and back. They did this several times and as the racoons moved in on them, they made their decision. They ran into my home. It has taken some time, but they have become a member of my cat family. I was surprised when Chester took them under his wing. He's usually very jealous, but he adopted them. I am still the only human who can interact with these cats and it worries me should something happen to me. The vet told me a story of an older woman in the community who adopted ferals and did well with them. When she died, however, nobody could deal with the cats and all of them had to be put down. I had not wanted to keep these kittens, but I was told that they were too old to be tamed and were not adoptable. It took a year for Ollie, the black one, to finally make his move to come and snuggle up with me in bed. He is very playful. He will chase a toy and fetch it in the same manner that a dog will. He will return it to me. He can play for hours. All I have to do is make a "mousey" sound and he knows that it's game time. He will greet me at the door and extend his paws in the most loving of manner. He will tug at my bootlaces when I get off work, as though he is trying to pull my shoes off.
I did some research and he looks very much like Havana Brown cats. He has a long face, dark whiskers, a very playful manner. His coat is unbelieavable. I know who his mother was, but his father is up in the air. There was a siamese that I spotted in the neighbourhood, but I don't know if it was a male or female. I always thought the culprit was an orange, one-eyed tom---but who knows.
By the way, the story has a happy ending. I later caught his tramp of a mother when she had her next litter of five kittens. They were all females. They were adopted and I got her fixed. She was meant to be a catch and release, but when I opened the door, she just looked at me. She didn't leave. Her kittens were overjoyed to see her move into the house. Poe, the little gray one, still runs up to her all the time for licks. Chester has also taken to her.
So, if anybody knows anything about cat breeds, does this guy look like he could be part Havana Brown?

MICROSOFT IS USELESS---GIVE ME STRENGTH

I am doing this on my friend's borrowed Mac, which I don't really know how to use, but at least ikt works. I had borrowed it to show that the photos could upload just fine, thankyou very much. In my post the other day I wrote that Microsoft deemed my new camera a Xerox scanner and refused to upload the photos. The MAC has no such problem. Well, today is just the end. Those idiots at Microsoft sent some updates. First of all, if their stinking roduct worked in the first place they wouldn't have to send updates all the time. I mean constantly. In fact, I had a functioning computer until they sent updates. It crashed a month or so into my ownership a d the motherboard had to be replaced. After that, nothing ever worked. I think the whole idea behind the updates is to ruin your computer so that you have to upgrade or buy a new one. Well, I will never purchase any of their lousy crap again. Today the updates are stuck. Stage 3 won't load and I cannot get it to stop either. I tried to unplug the stinking thing and to undo the internet. It just keeps coming, like the movie Groundhog Day. Idiots.

WHEN FRIENDS SUCCEED

I have spent a lot of time this summer proof-reading something for a friend of mine. He had written a manuscript which was about 500 pages in length and I was happy to see that he would allow me to have a look at it.

I went through it a number of times, with my assortment of coloured pens and post-it notes. He must have spent a fortune at Kinko's, having the various drafts put together.

He has had interest expressed in his novel and I am so proud of him. Perhaps one day I will be able to do a book review in this blog.

I was reminded of something that I had read once. I cannot recall the quote exactly, but it had to do with the success of friends. I guess that people have a difficult time when their friends succeed. Men, in particular, can be made to feel less adequate if there is a power imbalance.

I don't understand that lack of logic. If my friends do well or get praise, I cannot but help feel good for them. You need to understand that I speak of "friends" here---not people you know that might be on your social networking site. When that bond truly exists, a person won't leave us in the dust for better opportunities. They'll still be there to have our backs. They may do so sporting better clothing and driving a nicer car, but nothing can replace that strong connection of shared time and events. True, it can be odd if one person suddenly becomes "The Boss". Then you need to be really clear about boundaries. But surely the two people had more in common then just the job to talk about.

I might envy the fact that a person has a talent whereas I don't. I know that I beat myself up for not sticking to my diet when I have a gorgeous friend who's a size zero. But I could never wish her anything but the best.

In marriage, the ceremony implies being there for each other "in sickness and in health". I think that applies to true friendship as well. It means that we must support people when they do well. Their success is a reflection of their ability, not our lack of it. When they win, it takes nothing away from the rest of us.

I am so proud of my buddy. When people bring up his manuscript, I feel like the proverbial grandmother taking out the photo album of the grandkids.

I wrote about loss in a previous post. I really have discovered how valuable some people are to me. I know that my world will diminish greatly without them. There is enough in our economy and world to make us give up and feel bad. We really do need to reach out and give others the impetus to take a risk and strive for something. Talent needs to be fostered, as does any of those little things we need to get through our day.

It's terrible, but things get awkward when time lapses and we don't speak to each other. What caused it? We may want to get in touch, but cannot overcome that feeling. However, that odd feeling is nothing compared to the raw emotion a person will suffer should something bad happen to that person. To find that they just aren't there anymore. So call...reach out...make the move.

NEVER MIND THE LOST WEEKEND...it's the lost year

The rant on Microsoft will go some way at explaining why I've not written for a year. To be honest, however, there is more. It was the proverbial annee horrible.

I have had nothing go right with anything I own. My pump went on my well and I had to replace it at significant cost. In the meantime, I had no water for a week and a half. I told people to stand well clear of me. There is still plumbing work to be done, as the water was so bad that large chunks of rust have plugged up my pipes and appliances. I am making do for the time being, as after the plumber's visit and even more car repairs, there wasn't much left to play with.

It has been one of those years where I have been forced to reevaluate a lot of things. Both of my parents had some serious health issues. They are wonderful people and I want to see them travelling and lounging about. They deserve so much more. I feel intense guilt about not spending enough time with them.

Something else that happened was that my friend died. I feel responsible for his death. I feel as though I failed him in some deep and profound way. He was a wonderful person who had been in the military at one time. He shared some of the things he'd witnessed with me. We were a team at work. We used to eat our lunch together and we'd talk about any and all topics. It could be music, or the talent of Kevin Spacey or even (one day), the poem "Paradise Lost." He was a big man, sporting many tattoos. Yet, he would come over to my house and put on a pair of leather gloves for rough play. It's not what you think. He'd get on his hands and knees and engage one of my cats in a rousing game of chase. After he was spent, and sweating up a storm, the cat would walk over and lick him on his balding head. The game was over. We used to joke about our meal break and refer to it as the "lunch of losers", as oppossed to the "breakfast of champions". He'd drink his regular Pepsi while I would drink my diet. He told me that I was his best friend, other then his wife.

We had a pact. After work one day, he called me up. This man, who had witnessed burnt bodies in the military and dealt with other horrors, was breaking up. One of his cats was on the floor and he didn't think he could check it out. I went over and unfortunately, the cat had died suddenly for no reason. I took it to the vet to be cremated, as he was not able to do so. That's when we came up with our understanding. Should anything ever happen to the others pets, the other person would deal with it. We also agreed that the other would look after the pets in our wills, should all parties die.

I shared a few bad incidents with this man, and we helped each other through them. We had a strong bond. There wasn't much that we didn't share.

Things can change in an instant. We were broken up as a team and he began to feel isolated. It became harder for him to come to work without me as his partner. There were rumours as to why we had been broken up as a team. He began to go home halfway through his shift. One day, he fell and injured himself. On top of his existing medical issue, that was it for him. A combination of medications killed him.

I think of him all the time. Oddly, if I do sleep, I dream about his cat. I dream of being in the hallway of his apartment and not being able to get in. I miss him so much. I think of how we used to laugh and how well we worked together. I failed him in that I was going through some difficult issues at work and I wasn't functioning as well as I should. Because it seemed to take everything that I had to show up and earn my oats, I would spend my days off in the same pair of sweat pants, not getting anything done and not talking to anybody. There was nothing left of me. I knew that the medicatiion was hurting him but I didn't stop him from using them. I did not see him enough. I really would give anything to do it again.

So, I guess that's what this year has been about. The realization that those close to us can disappear in an instant. It was odd, but the night he died, I happened to be reading a poem by Allen Ginsberg called "Kaddish". When I heard the news in the morning, a line came back to me and I used it at his memorial. A year later I still recall parts of it..."...rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you've gone, it's good." I just hope that he never really believed in our "lunch of losers" talk. That's the last thing he was.

MICROSOFT NEEDS TO CALL ITS NEXT PRODUCT---NOT RESPONDING (no fancy names like Vista).

I cannot upload photos anymore. Microsoft has deemed my new camera (Fuji) a scanner (Xerox) and it refuses to upload. It just stopped one day. It couldn't burn discs from day one. It somehow feels that my internet connection---well paid for to the phone company---is another sort of connection. I had to keep reinstalling the Wizard, and it would insist that I wasn't worthy. Today, it took me about one hour to get online. My e-mail? Forget it. I'll show more photos in my "DAILY LEMON REPORT." People think I've blown them off. If I try to comment, it'll double post, or I'll get knocked off part way through. For no reason at all the speakers just stopped working today. They then came back to life.
I have missed reading my favourite blogs. People think I'm a snob for not getting on Facebook.
Microsoft---why don't you just call your next product "Not Responding". That's all I see. Never mind the Vista logo. I'm so fed up that when this finally dies (my friend tinkered), I won't get a new one. I have no money and I am disgusted by the product.
Enough for now. I will write more (maybe, if I get online) another day about the rest of the story, so to speak, and why all has not been well. I hope to catch up with blogs, Dlisted, etc.

A SAD LOSS

Before I explain my long absence (computer problems mainly), I found this and want to share it. This song was dedicated to a wonderful human being; a person I regret not getting to really know. He worked with us for a while before transferring. It was only upon his death that I learned that he too was a secret writer. He liked photography (although he had talent and I am merely interested). He read Dostoevsky.
While I was finding it increasingly difficult to show up for work, and life in general due to depression, he would have understood. As a child I loved to read "Anne of Green Gables." Like Anne, I was always on the lookout for "kindred spirits" (to use her line). What a missed opportunity. Now I will never be able to ask who his favourite poets were and why. Due to shift work, our paths crossed so infrequently. I am lamenting the loss his family feels and the waste in such a person passing, but I am also regretting my loss. How many people cross our path that could be somebody with whom we connect? Why do we continue to miss those chances?
I only hope that he managed to find some ease with himself at the end and peace.
In the meantime, this song was dedicated to him. The singer is Andrew Putt and the band is "Pardon My Striptease."