TERROR IN AMERICA!!! (and a few thoughts of my own..)

Well, I've finally solved the mystery.

Wondering why I was never blogging, nor really had anything to put once I'd forced myself to stare at the blank text box, I've cracked this elusive case.Twitter and Facebook are eating all my stories.The birth and growth of social media is the undoing, the death of Blogger, at least, it has been for me.If I were better at this, I'd save the goodies, the things I'd debate over, excusively for the blog. Unfortunately I'm owned by impatience, and the tendency to devote my attention to all things immediate and convenient.

But here, I sit at my desk and stare at this lonely, neglected blog. With eight hours a day at a desk, and embarassing ratios of work:play, I can no longer pull the "but I just don't have time!"

Thus, I present you:

FEAR.
PARANOIA.
CONSPIRACY!

I just pitched this story to our Cross-Platform Contributor here at Connect with Mark Kelley, but I'm going to be all selfish and post it here first:

http://911.wikileaks.org/

"From 3AM on Wednesday November 25, 2009, until 3AM the following day (US east coast time), WikiLeaks is releasing over half a million US national text pager
intercepts. The intercepts cover a 24 hour period surrounding the September 11,
2001 attacks in New York and Washington."

This is great. It's insight into unabashed human reaction and interaction in face
of disaster. Phone companies can, hopefully, glean some valuable data to work
with when it comes to heavy wireless traffic. Maybe, just maybe, we can dig for
some evidence on the biggest question of all - whodunit?

But that's just what's wrong. When I say whodunit?, do you think terrible, beard-swathed
terrorists with turbans, or, more daunting: the white collar company recording -
and potentially releasing - every text message, email, and call you receive?

how to (almost) die: dummies edition

On a rainy, rushed-hour-night, ride, ride, race your bike quickly through red lights. No light on your bike, no laws paid regard. Cagers careen out from their starting block, heads down. Brakes and bell, broken. Bones, somehow, not.

Bike stays on the balcony, until brake pads and brain are fixed.

Talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

Everybody loves sunsets.

This is, in fact, true. Never will you find a nay-sayer―between sunsets on beaches, sunsets over snow, and sunsets even from a cramped car, they're a universally-percieved sight of natural beauty. Sunsets are for first kisses, capping off a long, fulfilling day, or kicking off a night of things that can only really happen in the dark. If you ask a person if they would like to go watch the sun set from some comfortable location, they will almost always oblige. Bunnies, rainbows, sunsets, and love.

But what goes up must come down, which means the day is dawning on another realm, all of it a part of the beautiful balance that is nature. See, sunsets are nice. But it's predecessor, in my opinion, really holds the power.

Sunrises are saved for the more grandoise. I've seen a lot of sunsets, and they've all been nice and lovey-dovey and pretty, and I can't take away from that. But every sunrise I've watched (and I'm certain I can recall them all) has been symbolic of something ending, something beginning, something special. I don't mean just waiting at the bus stop on a goddamn early school day, no, that's just the opposite, it's the norm, it's godawful. But when you really sit and watch the sun rear its perfectly-spherical, luminous head, it sinks in.

Perhaps its this time of year, and being home that's giving me a bad case of nostalgia. I vividly remember the night of my grad―three years ago next week. I'll refuse to gloss over and say that a perfect night was had by all, because that was far from the fact. I divided my night jigging to Cyndi Lauper, and later, singing love songs to a toilet bowl at the Agricom. We couldn't decided on the after-grad destination, and spent the latter part of the eve peeing in Boston Pizza's, and miscommunicating with a limo driver. When we finally returned home, we rolled down the tinted windows and stepped out with bloody, blistered feet and bam!, there was the sun, saying hello, last night is over, you are done. I remember looking around at my friends and playing some reality-t.v. like game show―who, in one year, five years, will make the cut of the Real World, which friends will really "keep in touch" like they say they will (for the record, from that car ride, three). I remember watching the sun rise from an untouched acerage, and thinking of beginnings, and endings, and not much else. A Night to Remember, but that was just the grad's theme. A whole different world to wake up to, that's what it really meant to me on that late-late-night, that too-early-morning.

Then, another time. 

Last year in the gorgeous Gorge in Washington State, with two of my best friends from home, and one new friend, watched the sun rise as we packed up our campsite after a long, aptly-titled Memorial Day weekend. A weekend ending with goodbyes to places, to our campsite and our tent that we didn't once sleep in, to all the music played on a stage framed by nothing but blown-wide-open skies. We'd soon head in the car home together, and then I would solitarily head away by myself to my new home, my first summer away. I wondered what it would be like to spend it without the friends I'd had forever.

Last night, well, by now, two nights ago, I drove an old friend with a past home after a long night out. We reminisced, and as that familiar luminous body rose, I remembered the last time we'd driven this road. The last time, it was when two people became something more than friends. We'd climbed a bridge and conquered it, singing from the top to no one who'd hear that it was ours, that we were a "we." The other night seemed the same. We drove around familiar circles, and when dawn struck we were left to wonder if that was all really in the past, or if the past was playing into the present―into the now, into the new. It all seemed too recent, too real. As the car door shut and I was left alone in what was by now near to broad daylight, I drove home in dead silence, music not too crowd my wandering mind. 

What has happenned, what is to come... real sunrises mean beginnings, endings, but nothing in between. 

prayers for the prairies.

Welcome back to the wild wild west.

...well, minus the wild part. So far Sherwood Park has been, as usual, quaint, pleasant―words sometimes considered synonyms for drab, and dull, but that's a matter of perspective. The pace of the place is, to say the least, a small adjustment from the days of jaywalking the city, but once it sinks in, it doesn't hurt so hard.

Sometimes life out here's like a scene from Full House―with seven people in one house (NOT including a dog named after brand-name amonia), I'm prone to assume the role of Stephanie, the poor middle child who's life is sooo unfair. And as for sleeping in, well, that's not an option when your sister tap dances above your bedroom at 8 a.m. But being woken up my a human sound instead of a machine (I'm talking about YOU, cranes at St. Michael's!) is sorta comforting, as is warm, streaming sunlight that won't be blocked out by a neigbouring condo at 11:01 a.m. (makes afternoon tans tough). 

The suburb's the suburb, it's not worth glossing over. I could spend my months here honing in on what they don't have―which is plenty―but while I'm around, I mine as well take on what they do have to offer. Parks-a-plenty, free and fresh gourmet, old friends, family, and, of course, a room of my own.

Me and the local geriatrics ward Some of the fam who I love very much!

Drug wars: Last glance at Mary Jane

After a debacle like this, I was a little worried that the world's most lenient legislature was leading other nations in the wrong direction.

But just as the first signs of greens are showing outside, they're showing up in the news too. And when The Economist says it, you know it's true. And what better way to aid this thing called the recession? We (well I, by proxy) have a black president, we have gay marriage, and yet we still can't smoke da reefer without Harper upturning his pudgy nose. But the eternal question remains―can we do it in our lifetime? Roll a j from the rocking chair? Bring the bong to the retirement home bedside table? Smoke dope with the grandkids?

Yes we can.

The Inliers.

*Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be a racist tirade, but simply a cultural observation I've recently made which has allowed me to come to terms with some failures of the past. Don't hate.

I remember piano concerts as a kid. I remember throwing rampant tantrums in the car every time before I was to play in that concert I so loathed. It wasn't that I hated playing piano. It wasn't that I had stage fright, or even remotely disliked being the center of attention. All I ever hated was not being the best.

Every spring and every fall, I'd cram-practice for a week, playing the piano for an hour a day rather than an hour a week in preparation for Ms. Dorothy Weiss's seasonal recital. Two hours before show time, my little sister and I would dress in our Sunday best, hoping to impress all the well-to-do parents with our class, if not our classical piano. I'd bring the sheet music in the car, trying to commit each grace note to graphic memory, to nail each bar deeply in my brain.

And then we'd walk into the concert hall, late of course.

Scene: rows of piano students younger than I, all seated politely, with legs crossed at the ankle. Pretty skirts and perfectly-polished shoes, glasses, and of course, smug smiles. Beautiful little Asian girls and boys who were perfect, and perfectly better than I at anything I could do on that grand instrument. No matter their age or difficulty, they'd walk properly onstage, play their little hearts out without missing a trill, or an accent, or a crescendo. Perfect posture, perfect and proper. At the end, they'd turn and face the audience, bowing with a prideful, yet unconceited grin.

Then I, a foot taller and five shoe sizes bigger than most, would stumble onstage in a daze, sit down, and think of all ways could go wrong. And many of them, I did―my lithe fingers tangled, my crescendos started loud and ended soft, and many of my last notes were resemblent of that Arthur episode where he fails on the last note of Fur Elise (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about). I'd bow, embarassed, thinking how I should, instead, be bowing down to all the future Yannis and Yokos in the room. I was green-eyed and confused about why the Asians were just so damn perfect, and wondered what in the miso soup was making them so much better than I.

Well, I spent yesterday at the U of T Robarts library. Unfortunately, I also spent most of the night. Throughout the day, everyone of every race seemed to be there, navigating the stacks in a less confused fashion than myself. But when I finally got on that elevator at 9:55 p.m., I stepped into a box that may have fit better on a different continent... and that's when it all made sense.

Just like The Outliers said, success doesn't happen by chance. It happens with a specific set of circumstances, a certain environment, a combination of drive and work ethic. And that's exactly what I was surrounded by in that elevator last night―people who'd been raised to understand the long hours proper study requires, and those dilligent enough to stick it out, because it's engrained in their culture. No wonder everyone thinks of the west as fat, lazy Americans―by comparison, we are.

So maybe it's time I took a lesson from overseas experts and came to expect that good marks only come from long, hard hours. And that magical pianist's touch comes from days and days of hours and hours of gruelling practice. After all, the rigorous work always means a better reward.

on procrastination.

sometimes, the dread is far more miserable than the deed itself.

election selections.

Tonight, I'm staying in again with strep.

Common sense should denote me devoting time to write something intelligent, perhaps provide some insight into an intellectual matter. And there's one matter that matters a lot, but something I tend to avoid (especially for someone with U.S. citizenship).

I must admit, I'm typically a tad behind when it comes to the political race, but today, I've decided to up the ante, to broaden my horizons, to enter the critical, analytical blogosphere that is all to do with the U.S. election. 

I'd talk Palin, but I'm over the teenage-pregnancy hype, I'd speak of change, but Obama's got that covered... I'd talk McCain but I don't wanna bore anyone to sleep. That being said, there's only one last logical angle to cover...

the beautiful angles of Levi Johnston's chin. 

Happy voting!

TGItuesday

Lately, I've been spending a lot more time downloading .torrents than spending downtime downtown, browsing record shops. My personal theory firmly states that more of my dirty, sexy money goes direct to the artist when I pay for their concert ticket than when I give way to their greedy record label by buying their overpriced merch. I'd drop twenty bones to see a show in a heartbeat, but fifteen for a c.d. means I'm more likely to open my web browser than my wallet. It's about as illegal as finding those under-the-table tax breaks you know your parents willingly take. And if my mom says it's ok, than it is. I harbour no modern guilt for my mass downloading.
Well, Tuesday, I was feeling lucky. I'd spent the last few days saying 'hell yes' all over again to Guero, and was reminded by a friend that Beck's new album hit stores that very day. It could have been the B.C. booze, it could have been one fall too many off the boat, but personally, I think the Modern Guilt got me inside HMV. On my way out I noticed the wonderfully psychedelic cover of Ratatat's new rousing record. Impulse struck, and I took both up to the counter. The cashier was your typical mall-music-store geek (fortunately not of the overbred emo family), drooling over b-sides and the latest LPs, and man, did he drip when he saw my selections. An initial burst of pleasure with the first CD, and when he flipped over to see the second I swear, he could barely keep it in his pants. He wished happy listening as I walked away, reasserted and highly confident in the brilliant, undeniable taste in tunes I already knew I possessed.
Me and my dad walked away, me feeling satisfied, and maybe a little proud. I mean, not that I had bought (er, Daddy had helped) a brand-new CD, but I'd make the day of an overly-enthused, small-town music geek. And once we put the futuristic sea chanties of LP3 on the stereo out on the water, my day was made, just as well.

boo, hiss.

This is me, "out".

This is me, learning Cobrasnake parties aren't all their cracked up to be (that is, unless you're cracked out. and in retrospect that probably explains the good time had by many hipster attendees)... 

But it WAS a learning experience (see mom and dad!)—a party's no fun without the music. And now I remember why I like all this "going out" in the first place—it's the rock 'n roll, the beats, the funky-good feel that starts with a toe tap 'till it reaches the top. 

And since summertime=concert time, and shows+friends+drinks=good times, if I did my math correctly that means we get good times times two. And math WAS my best subject, after all...