Once again the viral craze of social networking has gone political. In the light of the recent CRTC Internet Usage online petition success, I've noticed an increase in the amount of Facebook fuelled, counter Harper petition links. Most recently of which is a petition to the Government of Canada to cease reference to itself as the "Harper Government" stating that, "The government of Canada is not Stephen Harper and Stephen Harper is not the government of Canada."
I, for one, wholeheartedly agree with, and have "signed" this internet petition, yet, I can't help but notice that re-posts of the link have flooded my newsfeed. While I'm pleased with the success of this appeal, I wonder, if every one of my friends who has signed, and reposted even one of these many circulating entreatments, actually took the time to vote on election day would it even be necessary to solicit names to this extent in order to repeal our Government's actions? Unfortunately, voter turn out during the 2008 General election was abysmal, mostly due to the fact that 18-29 year-olds didn't show up, 50% or less, of Canadian citizens ages 22-29 have voted in at least one election, yet 64% have participated in not-voting political action, if it's not that we don't care, than what is it?
When I implore my peers to vote, it seems that I receive looks of bewilderment followed by one of the following statements:
"It's not like it's going to do any good."
"I don't like any of the parties."
"If I vote for who I want to vote for, isn't it just a waste of a vote?"
The other response I get is "Democracy is corrupt anyways, so why vote?" More and more my peer group has become a swarm of counter-culture-anarchists who believe just that. We're damned if we do, damned if we don't.
I can't deny that our country needs electoral reform, and a 59% overall voter turn out in the 2008 General Election shows that most voters agree with me. As it stands now, the Canadian electoral system is that of the antiquated "First Past The Post" variety. What this means, is that Canadians vote for a candidate in their riding, and the winning candidate is granted a seat in the legislative assembly, or House of Commons, this candidate does NOT need a majority vote to win. The leader of the party who wins the most amount of seats in the House of Commons rather than the party with the highest percentage of the overall vote, is asked to form the government. In Canada with the FPTP system, governments often are formed by parties achieving less than 40% of overall voter support. The alternative to the FPTP system is that of Proportional Representation, where commonly, one ranks one's party in order of preference and a majority must be reached in order to gain a seat in the legislative assembly. With seventeen political parties registered with Elections Canada, it should be noted that PR is most effective with multi-party governments and usually results in a coalition, which have been proven to better represent the needs of ALL Canadians.
With the current system Steven Harper was elected with 34% of the 59% percent of Canadians who actually voted, this means that 18% of eligible voters in the country actually supported this government. This isn't old news, our current government is not supported by the majority ask any Canadian on the street.
Alas, whether it's "uncool" to vote or we've abandoned all hope, the epidemic of apathy when it comes to politics is spreading like wildfire and frankly, it's frightening. It's an old argument, "If you don't vote, then you can't complain about the way the countries being run" but the consequences of not voting are rapidly increasing. Not only are we currently being governed by an administration that is silently stealing our rights, we're throwing away the most important right we have and the only power we possess to change it! Every vote not cast is a vote to strengthen the status quo. That 18% of eligible voters who support the Harper Government gets stronger every time we take a pass on the polls by not diluting the core support. By not voting we send a message of "Everything's fine the way it is." Look around, read the petitions you've signed, look at the streets you avoid, the comments and complaints you make. Everything is not fine.
A common symptom of the affliction of my generation is the armchair political activism, when it's easy to take a stand, of course we will. When it's safe to rant from behind the safety of my keyboard, we'll rant! Even when we get out of our seats and protest, when we get out the poster paint, and the megaphones, we demand change and then neglect to cast our ballot.
We should be so lucky to be Canadians, and not have to have shed blood over our Government, we are blessed to be living in a country where we have a choice, each and every one of us. We are proud to have the rights and freedoms that we do, we defend them and we'll fight so that others may do the same. Still, we hesitate to take up the responsibilities that come with those freedoms, it's not a RIGHT to vote, it's a civic duty and a RESPONSIBILITY. My vote combined with your vote, combined with every other vote in the country are responsible for the healthcare, the education, and the support, of every Canadian.
It's our future, make sure you're heard. It's not enough to complain about the homelessness problem, and the state of East Hastings, it's not enough to protest, and it's not enough to sign a petition online.
Vote, and create a government you can be proud of.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Italian Shower
Okay,
I don't want this to end up being a blog full of me bitching about things i don't like, but seriously people, why can't you just anticipate the things I won't like and not do them.
Haven't we been over this yet people?!
Drenching yourself in cologne/perfume is NOT socially acceptable. It's inconsiderate and rude. When I can taste your perfume, you're wearing too much!
If you are a server in a restaurant, please for the love of god don't douse yourself in drugstore "hooker perfume" before coming to work, or even after your smoke break. I'd much rather smell your cigarette smell than an overbearing dose of "Britney Spears' Circus".
Before getting on a plane, it is not necessary to coat your skin in a bottle od Drakkar Noir. You smell like my grandpa, and now the whole plane can smell you through the wonder of recycled air. Easiest way to induce a mass migrane epidemic.
School teachers, you wonder why some of your students are suffering? Why no one will sit in the front row? Maybe if you put down the can of Axe and settled for a nice soap shower with a little unscented deodorant afterwards you might see an improvement.
Theres something to be said for class, and wearing your money well. Rich bitches, when you cover yourself in that $200 bottle of "Whatsthatsmell" and we can smell you all the way down Robson st. You are trashy, not classy, not sophisticated, nothin.
No, I will not be subtle about my disgust for your overbearing scent. I will hack loudly, and sneeze and make a big fuss. If you think it's rude, try being in my shoes. My head is killing me, my mouth tastes like chemicals and my throat burns, and it's all your fault.
Who's the rude one now?
Why do we have to go over this AGAIN and AGAIN!
I don't want this to end up being a blog full of me bitching about things i don't like, but seriously people, why can't you just anticipate the things I won't like and not do them.
Haven't we been over this yet people?!
Drenching yourself in cologne/perfume is NOT socially acceptable. It's inconsiderate and rude. When I can taste your perfume, you're wearing too much!
If you are a server in a restaurant, please for the love of god don't douse yourself in drugstore "hooker perfume" before coming to work, or even after your smoke break. I'd much rather smell your cigarette smell than an overbearing dose of "Britney Spears' Circus".
Before getting on a plane, it is not necessary to coat your skin in a bottle od Drakkar Noir. You smell like my grandpa, and now the whole plane can smell you through the wonder of recycled air. Easiest way to induce a mass migrane epidemic.
School teachers, you wonder why some of your students are suffering? Why no one will sit in the front row? Maybe if you put down the can of Axe and settled for a nice soap shower with a little unscented deodorant afterwards you might see an improvement.
Theres something to be said for class, and wearing your money well. Rich bitches, when you cover yourself in that $200 bottle of "Whatsthatsmell" and we can smell you all the way down Robson st. You are trashy, not classy, not sophisticated, nothin.
No, I will not be subtle about my disgust for your overbearing scent. I will hack loudly, and sneeze and make a big fuss. If you think it's rude, try being in my shoes. My head is killing me, my mouth tastes like chemicals and my throat burns, and it's all your fault.
Who's the rude one now?
Why do we have to go over this AGAIN and AGAIN!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Writers Funk
I tend to be a fairly friendly person. I tend to have patience for people, within reason. I would describe myself as being social. Today when I entered the "coffee shop with zero personality," it was for good reason. The walls are white washed, the tables all uniform and plain, hipster hair and white gleaming Macbooks present at each. I chose this coffee shop above the plethora of charm filled options that grace the streets of East Vancouver for it's cold atmosphere, and pretentious clientele. My hair is not asymmetrical enough for me to be approached by hipsters, nor are my jeans skinny enough, or my shirt shapeless and unflattering enough. This is the place to get work done, distractions minimal, people to distracted by themselves to approach me.
I politely oblige when asked to plug in a charger, or when someone asks about the quality of my internet connection, (it's quite poor at the moment actually). My notebook, and sketchbook, and cellphone are spread across the table around my laptop, headphones securely placed on head. I'm in the zone.
As I search for a word thats on the tip of my tongue, I notice that free tables are few and far between, I claimed one of the last and only available seats. While typing a particularily brilliant line of what I'm sure I thought was life changing prose, I was interrupted by the accent I loathe over all accents. It cuts through me like a searing knife, and makes me cringe,
"Mind i share your table?" asks the Australian woman, book in hand.
Dilemma. You see, I really do mind if she sits here. I've spread myself out, I'm comfortable, and lets face it, this table isn't big enough for the both of us.
"I won't take up that much room." she pleads.
I can't be that person, I can feel the eyes around me watching the situation unfold, so I clumsily and awkwardly in true Jus fashion try and condense my things. Shoving my books back in my bag so that only my phone, laptop and coffee remain on the table.
She sits. Out comes her book, her phone, her notebook, her glasses case, her sunglasses case (it's raining!) her pencil case (?!), her toque comes off her head and lays across my phone. Suddenly, my laptop is perched as close to the edge of the table as possible, my chair is pushed back so I can retain a little leg room comfort and my table has been conquered.
I let her sit, elbows constantly bumping, sloshing coffee out of her cup, legs crossing and uncrossing under the table, bumping yet again. My patience wearing thinner and thinner and me desperately trying to not let my lack of good humour show on my face. After all, I did say she could sit here. Finally, a table opens up, and I make a point of looking at it longingly, hoping she'll get the hint. Ha. No dice.
At this point I am as equally annoyed as I am ashamed of myself for feeling so selfish, so I reach for my cigarettes and make my escape into the drizzle for a quick nicotine cool down. As I'm slowly puffing my way into an early grave, I let fall my veil of feigned imperturbability and I notice through the window, she's watching me.
I return to my seat, re-don my headphones and begin typing. Moments after my return, she gathers her things, slips on her coat, gives me a death glare, and leaves. At long last, my personal space is mine again. My genius is free to flow out, unimpeded by this woman in my bubble.
Yet, here I am, some 600 words later, all previous grand literary postulations buried in frustration and a mild sense of guilt and confusion.
I'm stuck, and my coffee tastes like tomato juice.
I politely oblige when asked to plug in a charger, or when someone asks about the quality of my internet connection, (it's quite poor at the moment actually). My notebook, and sketchbook, and cellphone are spread across the table around my laptop, headphones securely placed on head. I'm in the zone.
As I search for a word thats on the tip of my tongue, I notice that free tables are few and far between, I claimed one of the last and only available seats. While typing a particularily brilliant line of what I'm sure I thought was life changing prose, I was interrupted by the accent I loathe over all accents. It cuts through me like a searing knife, and makes me cringe,
"Mind i share your table?" asks the Australian woman, book in hand.
Dilemma. You see, I really do mind if she sits here. I've spread myself out, I'm comfortable, and lets face it, this table isn't big enough for the both of us.
"I won't take up that much room." she pleads.
I can't be that person, I can feel the eyes around me watching the situation unfold, so I clumsily and awkwardly in true Jus fashion try and condense my things. Shoving my books back in my bag so that only my phone, laptop and coffee remain on the table.
She sits. Out comes her book, her phone, her notebook, her glasses case, her sunglasses case (it's raining!) her pencil case (?!), her toque comes off her head and lays across my phone. Suddenly, my laptop is perched as close to the edge of the table as possible, my chair is pushed back so I can retain a little leg room comfort and my table has been conquered.
I let her sit, elbows constantly bumping, sloshing coffee out of her cup, legs crossing and uncrossing under the table, bumping yet again. My patience wearing thinner and thinner and me desperately trying to not let my lack of good humour show on my face. After all, I did say she could sit here. Finally, a table opens up, and I make a point of looking at it longingly, hoping she'll get the hint. Ha. No dice.
At this point I am as equally annoyed as I am ashamed of myself for feeling so selfish, so I reach for my cigarettes and make my escape into the drizzle for a quick nicotine cool down. As I'm slowly puffing my way into an early grave, I let fall my veil of feigned imperturbability and I notice through the window, she's watching me.
I return to my seat, re-don my headphones and begin typing. Moments after my return, she gathers her things, slips on her coat, gives me a death glare, and leaves. At long last, my personal space is mine again. My genius is free to flow out, unimpeded by this woman in my bubble.
Yet, here I am, some 600 words later, all previous grand literary postulations buried in frustration and a mild sense of guilt and confusion.
I'm stuck, and my coffee tastes like tomato juice.
Friday, September 24, 2010
I just flew in from the Olio fest, and boy are my ears tired!
Last night was the first night of OLIO festival, a three day independent music, comedy, art and film festival. Venues across Vancouver played host to some of the best independent rock and roll the west coast has to offer. While many music goers were lucky enough to take in the likes of local rockers, The Manvils, and the ever talented gents of Sun Wizard (seriously though, check their Myspace), I was up to my ears in skinny jeans, fashion frames, and pretentious affectations.
Thank god only eight people graced the dance floor at Club 560 as The SSRIs took stage, the fewer casualties, the better. Featuring the enormous percussive skill of Tony Dallas of Boogie Monster (another misguided collaboration), and the musical talent of a badger in heat, the SSRIs are about as subtle as a mack truck and just as painful. They are neither progressive nor psychedelic, and it's amazing to see how four guys with demonstrable skill, have worked so hard to appear as though they haven't got a clue. With songs that have no discernible start or finish, melody or time signature, a self indulgent drummer, and a bass player with as much charisma as his hipster hair and ambiguous side long glances will allow, The SSRIs are the epitome of self-righteous, ego-maniacal scenester dribble and would do better to go back to the drawing board and try to remember what real music sounds like.
As eight people turned into a hundred, The Racoons garnered fans just by being better than the opener. Wads of kleenex were removed from ears as the crowd settled in for some mediocre indie rock. Not much can really be said for the Racoons, who's equally ambiguous attitude and general air of disinterest in their music was contrasted by the chops of guitar player Murray Mckenzie and his Jonas Brothers hair.
Finally two mind numbing hours later, the headliner, Edmonton's Shout Out Out Out Out, took to the stage, played half a song and then was rudely interrupted by the fire alarm. Whether some one pulled it, or it was set off by the fog machine, the band kept playing to the beat of the bell until house lights were brought up and they were asked to stop. Some twenty minutes later as the firemen exited the venue it was apparent that so did most of the crowd. No matter, front man Nik just picked up where the band left off and Shout Out Out Out Out went on and on and on and on. Having two drummers in a band can be a great thing, it can be fun and allow for some wicked rhythms. Having two drummers in the same band, mirroring each other, and playing the exact same thing is just a waste of a kit, and stage space, especially when one abundantly outshines the other as is the case with SO4. Musically this six piece band really only needs to be a four piece, but that depends if we're counting the vocorder as a member. Falling to his knees, and covering his eyes halfway through the set one wonders if singer Nik Kozuk's music might even be too much for himself. The crowd didn't even call for an encore, the music stopped, they slowly filed out of the room and went home, a tell tale sign of an exhausting night.
While the Olio Festival has a number of great acts to look forward to I can't say that last nights show was much of a success, with the terrible opener, poor turn out, mediocre talent and the fire alarm, one thing is for certain, it can only get better from here. Go to http://www.oliofestival.com/ to check out more events happening all over the city this weekend.
Thank god only eight people graced the dance floor at Club 560 as The SSRIs took stage, the fewer casualties, the better. Featuring the enormous percussive skill of Tony Dallas of Boogie Monster (another misguided collaboration), and the musical talent of a badger in heat, the SSRIs are about as subtle as a mack truck and just as painful. They are neither progressive nor psychedelic, and it's amazing to see how four guys with demonstrable skill, have worked so hard to appear as though they haven't got a clue. With songs that have no discernible start or finish, melody or time signature, a self indulgent drummer, and a bass player with as much charisma as his hipster hair and ambiguous side long glances will allow, The SSRIs are the epitome of self-righteous, ego-maniacal scenester dribble and would do better to go back to the drawing board and try to remember what real music sounds like.
As eight people turned into a hundred, The Racoons garnered fans just by being better than the opener. Wads of kleenex were removed from ears as the crowd settled in for some mediocre indie rock. Not much can really be said for the Racoons, who's equally ambiguous attitude and general air of disinterest in their music was contrasted by the chops of guitar player Murray Mckenzie and his Jonas Brothers hair.
Finally two mind numbing hours later, the headliner, Edmonton's Shout Out Out Out Out, took to the stage, played half a song and then was rudely interrupted by the fire alarm. Whether some one pulled it, or it was set off by the fog machine, the band kept playing to the beat of the bell until house lights were brought up and they were asked to stop. Some twenty minutes later as the firemen exited the venue it was apparent that so did most of the crowd. No matter, front man Nik just picked up where the band left off and Shout Out Out Out Out went on and on and on and on. Having two drummers in a band can be a great thing, it can be fun and allow for some wicked rhythms. Having two drummers in the same band, mirroring each other, and playing the exact same thing is just a waste of a kit, and stage space, especially when one abundantly outshines the other as is the case with SO4. Musically this six piece band really only needs to be a four piece, but that depends if we're counting the vocorder as a member. Falling to his knees, and covering his eyes halfway through the set one wonders if singer Nik Kozuk's music might even be too much for himself. The crowd didn't even call for an encore, the music stopped, they slowly filed out of the room and went home, a tell tale sign of an exhausting night.
While the Olio Festival has a number of great acts to look forward to I can't say that last nights show was much of a success, with the terrible opener, poor turn out, mediocre talent and the fire alarm, one thing is for certain, it can only get better from here. Go to http://www.oliofestival.com/ to check out more events happening all over the city this weekend.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Daddy Daughter Day
As some of you may or may not know, I cover a 5 hour shift once a week at a children’s toy store in Vancouver’s urban hippy neighborhood known as “The Drive.” This experience is both incredibly fun and incredibly eye opening. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been shocked by the leniency of parents while purchasing birthday gifts for other children, how many parents turn a blind eye to their child’s misbehavior and how seldom it is that you see a parent not just teaching their child to be nice, and polite, but considerate. Yes, we know that sharing is nice and we do it because we get positive reinforcement from our parents, but its increasingly apparent to me that children are not being taught to consider other peoples feelings. To clean up the mess they made because the poor girl in the shop will have to do it if they don’t, and she looks like she had a long night last night and might still have a hangover.
Two weeks ago, on a particularly sober morning, I was caught off guard while preemptively separating the medieval and cowboy Playmobile sets, lest I have an “Indian in the cupboard” situation on my hands. I felt a tug on the frays of my skinny scenester cut-off shorts to find a tiny girl chewing on a Play-Doh ravioli cutter, she couldn’t have been more than three years-old, and was dressed in pink overalls, and a pink shirt, with pink Mary Janes, and a pink ribbon in her baby soft blonde hair. She pulled at the frays of my shorts to tell me, in so many words, that I had dropped a Playmobile set without noticing. Her tiny hands, obstructed by her Play-Doh toy, could barely grasp the box, a particularly gruesome medieval war, as she tried to lift it up to give to me. Moments after I thanked her, and she fell over in delight, her father joined her.
He was dressed in Vans, cut off black Dickies shorts, sleeve tattoos, a “Pro Skates” t-shirt, a winning smile and empty ring finger. He picked up his daughter, and proceeded to ask me if we had any fairy costumes, unfortunately all of our costumes are for little girls who want to be fairies and not girls who are the same size as real ones. He looked at the tiny creature on his hip, and said “Not a problem, I’ll just make you one sweetheart.”
Cue: Heart melt. It may just be my aching ovaries, or my raging hormones and desperate loneliness, but this tattooed, skateboard daddy, with a daughter who just wanted to be a fairy (although I’m convinced she already was) made me believe in parenthood again. Not only was he willing to make his tiny daughter a fairy costume, (which looked like the last thing a guy like him would want to be caught doing on a Saturday night) he wasn’t trying, like many parents who come into my store, to turn his kid into a clone of him. Skate-Daddies come in all the time, with their kids in mohawks, and Baby-Vans, and ironic shirts that say things like “Recently Evicted” and “iPood” or baby “Ramones” and “Guns N Roses” t-shirts. All of these poor children are mini clones of their not so cool parents, and may very well grow up to resent the fact that daddy had a skateboard.
While I dug through the dress-up clothes to try and find a pair of tiny pink wings, the little creature he was holding squirmed away and found the play table at the back of the store. We chatted about Pro Skates, a Halifax based skate shop, how he used to work there and how he had moved to Vancouver while he constantly kept an eye on his charge.
After a short while she decided she had had enough and, clutching a firefighter toy, she decided to let daddy know she was tired and hungry and possibly poopy, in the loudest way possible. Skate Daddy wasn’t going to have any of it. In ten seconds he did what I have seen other parents take twenty minutes, much pleading and the purchasing of unnecessary toys to do. He quieted his daughter, made his purchase, and began to exit the store. Realizing his daughter still had a toy in her hand he asked her to go return it, knowing he was almost out the door and the battle was almost won, I offered to do it for her.
“No, thank you, she needs to learn.” he said. He was teaching her what I wanted every parent who comes into the shop to teach their kids.
This interaction with Skate Daddy was eye opening for me, this beautiful creature was so lucky to have such a great person on her side, fighting for her, protecting her, teaching her, making fairy costumes for her. I thought of my own Dad. He wasn’t a Skate Daddy, he wasn’t a fairy costume making daddy, he wasn’t sleeve tattoo daddy. While I silently wished that he was heart melting daddy I quickly realized that my daddy was all of those things.
He was Rock Star Daddy, skinned knee daddy, and always there daddy. When shit hit the fan, it was easy to blame my parents, and for my parents it was easy to blame each other. No matter how I felt in my teenage crazed hormone years, the years I tortured my father and he didn’t understand, the year I left home at 15 and left him alone, he was still always there, and still always the daddy who picked me up when I fell, the one who made things clear for me when they got all foggy. Skate Daddy and my daddy were one and the same, and I hope that the miniature person who tugged on my frays will someday realize how fortunate she is to be blessed with someone like him, and hopefully he’ll be able to survive the years that she doesn’t act so angelic and doesn’t know why. Because, trust me, those years are not pretty, and it’s just as hard being the daughter as it is being the daddy.
Two weeks ago, on a particularly sober morning, I was caught off guard while preemptively separating the medieval and cowboy Playmobile sets, lest I have an “Indian in the cupboard” situation on my hands. I felt a tug on the frays of my skinny scenester cut-off shorts to find a tiny girl chewing on a Play-Doh ravioli cutter, she couldn’t have been more than three years-old, and was dressed in pink overalls, and a pink shirt, with pink Mary Janes, and a pink ribbon in her baby soft blonde hair. She pulled at the frays of my shorts to tell me, in so many words, that I had dropped a Playmobile set without noticing. Her tiny hands, obstructed by her Play-Doh toy, could barely grasp the box, a particularly gruesome medieval war, as she tried to lift it up to give to me. Moments after I thanked her, and she fell over in delight, her father joined her.
He was dressed in Vans, cut off black Dickies shorts, sleeve tattoos, a “Pro Skates” t-shirt, a winning smile and empty ring finger. He picked up his daughter, and proceeded to ask me if we had any fairy costumes, unfortunately all of our costumes are for little girls who want to be fairies and not girls who are the same size as real ones. He looked at the tiny creature on his hip, and said “Not a problem, I’ll just make you one sweetheart.”
Cue: Heart melt. It may just be my aching ovaries, or my raging hormones and desperate loneliness, but this tattooed, skateboard daddy, with a daughter who just wanted to be a fairy (although I’m convinced she already was) made me believe in parenthood again. Not only was he willing to make his tiny daughter a fairy costume, (which looked like the last thing a guy like him would want to be caught doing on a Saturday night) he wasn’t trying, like many parents who come into my store, to turn his kid into a clone of him. Skate-Daddies come in all the time, with their kids in mohawks, and Baby-Vans, and ironic shirts that say things like “Recently Evicted” and “iPood” or baby “Ramones” and “Guns N Roses” t-shirts. All of these poor children are mini clones of their not so cool parents, and may very well grow up to resent the fact that daddy had a skateboard.
While I dug through the dress-up clothes to try and find a pair of tiny pink wings, the little creature he was holding squirmed away and found the play table at the back of the store. We chatted about Pro Skates, a Halifax based skate shop, how he used to work there and how he had moved to Vancouver while he constantly kept an eye on his charge.
After a short while she decided she had had enough and, clutching a firefighter toy, she decided to let daddy know she was tired and hungry and possibly poopy, in the loudest way possible. Skate Daddy wasn’t going to have any of it. In ten seconds he did what I have seen other parents take twenty minutes, much pleading and the purchasing of unnecessary toys to do. He quieted his daughter, made his purchase, and began to exit the store. Realizing his daughter still had a toy in her hand he asked her to go return it, knowing he was almost out the door and the battle was almost won, I offered to do it for her.
“No, thank you, she needs to learn.” he said. He was teaching her what I wanted every parent who comes into the shop to teach their kids.
This interaction with Skate Daddy was eye opening for me, this beautiful creature was so lucky to have such a great person on her side, fighting for her, protecting her, teaching her, making fairy costumes for her. I thought of my own Dad. He wasn’t a Skate Daddy, he wasn’t a fairy costume making daddy, he wasn’t sleeve tattoo daddy. While I silently wished that he was heart melting daddy I quickly realized that my daddy was all of those things.
He was Rock Star Daddy, skinned knee daddy, and always there daddy. When shit hit the fan, it was easy to blame my parents, and for my parents it was easy to blame each other. No matter how I felt in my teenage crazed hormone years, the years I tortured my father and he didn’t understand, the year I left home at 15 and left him alone, he was still always there, and still always the daddy who picked me up when I fell, the one who made things clear for me when they got all foggy. Skate Daddy and my daddy were one and the same, and I hope that the miniature person who tugged on my frays will someday realize how fortunate she is to be blessed with someone like him, and hopefully he’ll be able to survive the years that she doesn’t act so angelic and doesn’t know why. Because, trust me, those years are not pretty, and it’s just as hard being the daughter as it is being the daddy.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
SAY "NO" TO CAMEL-TOE
I, Jus Alexandra Percy, am in no way a fashonista. I am in no way up on the latest trends and am of the t-shirt and jeans school of thought. I get excited when I find a new hoody, I relish in the thought of a new skate shoe, and yes, I wear white after labour day. I have immense trouble walking in high heels, I do not possess the patience for clutches and small hand bags and every attempt at shaving my legs ends like a Brian De Palma film.
Lately though, I’d have to say that my style radar has been piqued. Out of nowhere it seems I have become exceedingly aware of a several trends. Not because they are so fabulous that I am forced to gaze in awe and amazement, quite the contrary. A few of these so called styles have me wondering what the hell we’re thinking and as the summer months are approaching and we are no longer in need of thick, warm layers one in particular has got me gagging.
It was 3 AM and I was just coming out of my club where I work. Several hours on my feet, dealing with drunken dance club types, and having had my ass fondled several times by strangers had left me exhausted and cranky. Stumbling down the block, in search of sustenance from the late night pizza joint, I was accosted by what I was sure was a character from The Jersey Shore. Dressed in a fake tan, big hair, tiny bolero-style, acid wash denim vest, silicone tits and leggings, this monstrosity had her lady-bits on show for the world to see.
Now there are many things wrong with what Snookie The Second was wearing, but none more so than the leggings. I am an 80’s child, my sister Renee grew up in the 80’s while I was merely born in the decade. As a result I got a lot of her 80’s era hand me downs, slouchy sweaters, scrunchies and matching legging and sweater sets, legwarmers included. I wore leggings several times a week in the early 90s, neon green with stars, purple zebra stripes, hot pink leopard print, mind you I was five years old, the sweaters that matched usually hung down long enough to cover my behind, and the leggings were thick enough and large enough to not shock my teachers and friend’s parents.
Thankfully trends have evolved and side ponies, shoulder pads, crop tops and scrunchies are a thing of the past. Apparently, we haven’t seen the last of the legging, and we shouldn’t, a very handy and useful accoutrement that allows skirt wearing in cold weather, flexibility on dance stages and yoga classes, and a great layer technique for all styles of attire. One thing leggings are not is pants. I repeat, LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS, ladies. They are a step up from tights, a step or two down from skinny jeans; they are not to be used as the only thing to wear on your lower half!
The Snookie clone spotted the other night was not the sole offender; I’ve seen this become a tendency amongst many, much more refined, and smarter ladies in my crowd. Ones who have demonstrated modesty and class in the past have now started to show us their entire world. Leggings now are thinner, and tighter than they were when I was a child, this might have something to do with the post-puberty addition of hips and bums to our anatomy and the baffling popularity of American Apparel, but in the last 2 weeks I have seen more camel toe than the Sahara and bums seem hungrier than an anorexic. Ladies, we must say “No” to camel toe.
It’s okay ladies, if you are an offender, hope is not lost, we can rebuild you, make you classier, and more modest, fitter, stronger and with less hungry bum and no camel toe.
It’s easy, cover that shit up. Options include, but are not limited to: skirts, dresses, long shirts, wide scarves, superhero underwear and fig leaves. Perhaps consider buying leggings a size up, yes they’re stretchy, but they do come in sizes. Purchase leggings that have a crotch seam that cuts around your lady bits so you don’t get the front wedgie, which really can’t be comfortable, it’s certainly not comfortable as a third party witness.
Now men, I understand sometimes you have urges, a funny feeling “Down There” when you see members of the opposite sex. These urges are perfectly normal, it’s ok to feel your pants shrinking now and again, and suddenly have to think of the guests at your grandma’s 80th birthday party to maintain composure. It is not okay, however, to have this feeling triggered by the front wedgie classlessness of the camel toe female. Ladies like it when they can arouse men, and they continue to exert behavior to incite said reaction, and some don’t understand the allure of an air of mystique. You have a responsibility here too, you must say “No” to camel toe. You must never let it be known that hungry bum and a camel toe are “hot”. These feelings are meant for the privacy of your home and not for the streets of Vancouver, unless you’re on Seymour at 4AM.
Please. We all have a responsibility here; do your part, you must SAY “NO” TO CAMEL TOE.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Gregory Alan Isakov
There's a simple beauty to the sound of Gregory Alan Isakov's This Empty Northern Hemisphere, stating more than just eloquent poetry but creating a masterpiece with warm tones and sweet harmonies. A heartfelt nostalgia in every verse evokes memories of the south, even if you grew up in the east.
As “Dandelion Wine” begins the album I am immediately transported back to the days of summer loves and willow trees, and joyfully remain there until the end.
Technically Isakov’s sophomore album is more complex than The Sea, That Gambler, his 2006 debut album, while still allowing the for universality of straightforward and relatable lyrics, layering harmonies of piano, strings, horns and guitar. Much like Leonard Cohen, whose “One of us cannot be wrong” rounds out the album, individually every one of Isakov’s songs can be a stand-alone poem, all music aside.
“That Moon Song” the third track, haunts listeners with a powerfully subtle harmony from accomplished musician Brandie Carlisle, complementing Gregory’s honey laden vocals and nimbly crafted words like a fine wine. Isakov even wistfully cites his own genre in the reflective tune Evelyn; “theres an old folk song on the radio / sounding thin and dark and haunted” as it transitions into Virginia May, Big Black Car, and the title track, which are indeed just that.
From top to bottom, every chord, every note, and every word speak to you, no matter what your background may be. Heartbreak, love, reflection and home are themes that everyone can associate with collectively, and Isakov assures that you are not alone.
In an era where every man and his dog plays guitar, and every singer-songwriter wants to be Ryan Adams, it's refreshing to be knocked out of my seat by a musician who is as compelling and talented as Isakov. Listening to Northern Hemisphere is like listening to your grandmother’s phonograph, and smiling.
Album is available at www.gregoryalanisakov.com/
-Jus Alexandra Percy
As “Dandelion Wine” begins the album I am immediately transported back to the days of summer loves and willow trees, and joyfully remain there until the end.
Technically Isakov’s sophomore album is more complex than The Sea, That Gambler, his 2006 debut album, while still allowing the for universality of straightforward and relatable lyrics, layering harmonies of piano, strings, horns and guitar. Much like Leonard Cohen, whose “One of us cannot be wrong” rounds out the album, individually every one of Isakov’s songs can be a stand-alone poem, all music aside.
“That Moon Song” the third track, haunts listeners with a powerfully subtle harmony from accomplished musician Brandie Carlisle, complementing Gregory’s honey laden vocals and nimbly crafted words like a fine wine. Isakov even wistfully cites his own genre in the reflective tune Evelyn; “theres an old folk song on the radio / sounding thin and dark and haunted” as it transitions into Virginia May, Big Black Car, and the title track, which are indeed just that.
From top to bottom, every chord, every note, and every word speak to you, no matter what your background may be. Heartbreak, love, reflection and home are themes that everyone can associate with collectively, and Isakov assures that you are not alone.
In an era where every man and his dog plays guitar, and every singer-songwriter wants to be Ryan Adams, it's refreshing to be knocked out of my seat by a musician who is as compelling and talented as Isakov. Listening to Northern Hemisphere is like listening to your grandmother’s phonograph, and smiling.
Album is available at www.gregoryalanisakov.com/
-Jus Alexandra Percy
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