It's more than gun control... It's hate control.

I know I said this blog was done, but I can't not write tonight and this is my only medium.

In response to the tragic events of today that occurred in Connecticut where yet another gun related massacre occurred.

The outcry on social media is heavily favouring the ineffective American gun control laws as the culprit for such an occurrence and I cannot sit idly by and let that stand.

While I feel that yes, gun control is an issue, I also feel that raising children with values of non-violence, support and inclusion are issues too. Yes, Bill Maher, it's easy to say "Prayers and giving your kids hugs fixes nothing, only standing up to our [...] gun control culture will" but waging a war on gun control is only a tiny piece of the puzzle.

Teaching children compassion, love and consequence by example, showing them they are understood and accepted, and educating our new generation on how to work through and combat the selfish hate filled world we have spiraled into is not what I call "fixing nothing."

Children live what they learn, and I have been blessed enough to grow up with acceptance and understanding, not every child is lucky enough.

No matter where you live, getting a gun is easy if you want it bad enough. Yes, America's gun control laws are extremely inefficient, however making sure there is support for people who are bipolar, suffer from other mental issues and depression is just as important.

I understand we are taking it step by step, and gun control is the immediate gut reaction to a tragedy like this one in Connecticut and last weeks in Oregon. I feel that we need to take it a step further and address the issue of why these people felt mass murder was the answer, why shooting up a school or shopping mall was the only outlet for their feelings.

Yes, fight for stricter gun control in the United States, but please also fight for mental health and arts programs. As ironic as it is fight for non-violence and for love and a world with less hatred. Fight for support and conscience, both political and personal.

The fight starts with you and will, if you let it, change the world.

Moving.

Dear Blog Followers. (aka my mom)

I am moving to a new blog site. One that I can customize better (although i have no idea how) and is a bit of a fresh start.

You can now find my ramblings at http://freshsqueezedjus.wordpress.com/

The things I've written here might appear there from time to time, the ones I'm proud of anyways.

Please come find me over there, and tell your friends.

Thanks!

What I Did On My Summer Vacation Part 1

The universe is a crafty mother-effer and no matter how many times I think I have my future pegged, my cards dealt, something comes along makes me play 52-pick-up. My whole life, I feel, has been this constant state of motion, never stagnant, never still, like the glacial rapids I used to drink from as a teen.

From the moment first started doubting my place in the world, a precocious and feisty ten-year-old, I started to assume that every person has their doubts and dreams and the universe can only look out for so many people. Why was I special? Why would I be any different than the thousands of people who believe they are special in the world.

Now, I'm not going to regale you with some bullshit about everyone having their path, and "The future belongs to those who believe" crap. Yeah sure, some successful broad somewhere said something that inspired someone to do something but that broad got just as lucky, or worked just as hard as everyone else out there. 

Being a privileged caucasian I can't ignore how lucky I am to live the life I lead. When I say privileged I mean having access to clean water and a roof over my head, in no way do I mean monetarily wealthy or tangibly rich. At the same time though I hustle my ass off for the life I lead, as pauper-esque as it may be. 

Now, no matter how many times I get kicked in the proverbial balls, I find theres always a painful or nauseating lesson to be learned by the nut-punch I've just been dealt. Hard lessons are the way I've lived my life and I've gotten my fair share, from my relatively screwed up family situation, my random and unfortunately hilarious health problems, to my early ejection from childhood idealism and fucked up stories of love and loss. 

The upside to being bashed in the face repeatedly by my fairy-god-bitch is that there always seems to be something amazing and beautifully connected that comes along and takes away all the pain, turns me upside down and forces me to see the silver lining in the world at large. Bitch though she may be, my guardian case worker throws me a lot of bones.

After parting ways with what I now see as a completely insecure, manipulative emotional trainwreck I had to deal with being alone again. I had lost my friends. I had lost my music. I had lost my spark. I had lost myself. I now knew I was capable not only of loving someone, but of being loved, a concept I had never fully grasped in the past. 

Most of my friends had abandoned me, most of my work leads had moved on, most of my happiness had been drained, I had thrown myself into what little work I could find loading gear and running tech errands for a small production company I worked for off and on. Lamenting to my friend Ashton in Michigan how much being in Vancouver feels alien to me and the city I had thought of as home didn't feel like it anymore. The road, we agreed, feels more like home than anything else we'd encountered. 

Luckily a barrage of work hit me in the last few weeks, twenty hour day after twenty hour day hauling and pushing gear. My new roomates never saw me for more than a minute or so here and there. It was great because it kept my mind off some things that had been bothering me recently.

My hostile personality and adventurous spirit had alienated many of what I had considered good friends away from me. My absences on the road and locked in a controlling relationship had allowed other people to fill in my spot in my social circles, and my friends to forget why they had me around in the first place. I stopped getting phone calls for gang vocal sessions with friends who would have normally called me up first. Success in some of my friends lives, as deserved as it was, had pulled them away from me and they were now socializing with a more "elite" group of individuals. The "scene" had struck while I was away and I called "Bullshit" and was suddenly excommunicated.

So when roused from sleep at nine AM one Sunday morning, groggy and sleep deprived as usual, I was eager still to head to work and forget. A brief break in the day then sent me at the very last second to do a load in at a club for a few bands. I arrived uncharacteristically late, sweaty and generally looking like a pile of shit. The universe was kind of being a dick.

Until moments later...

White Folding Chairs

In white folding chairs, we begin.

Parents pace, and wonder.

In chairs made of metal and plastic.

In folding chairs that hurt our backs

We grow, we see, we learn

In chairs that define our place

In white folding chairs we succeed

Mentors celebrate and rejoice

The chairs that lead to our future

In chairs with arms and deadlines

We work and prioritize our lives

Chairs that demand of our time

With White folding chairs, we dance

And bind our two young souls

The chairs that waltz around us

In chairs of Oak, we plead

We bargain from every angle

The chairs that we don’t own

In white folding chairs, we wait

I pace, and I wonder

About the chairs that you grace.

In chairs of Leather and hair

We reflect upon the years

Chairs that will embrace us

In white folding chairs, I watch,

The tears soak my lashes

The chairs that take you away

White folding chairs. 

"We don't want to hire a girl."

Well, sexism is alive and well in 2011 and while most of you will scoff and say "Hells No" it's very much a reality.

I'm a lighting tech, a backline tech, I dabble in tour managing and assisting, and I'm also a merch girl. I have experience fixing and maintaining guitars, and if you asked me nicely, I could tune your drum kit. I'm good at what I do, I'm proud of what I do, and I love doing it.

Here's the catch. I'm a girl.

There was a 1 in 2 chance that I would be born a boy, and hell, it looks like i drew the short straw. Don't get me wrong, I love being a woman. It has its perks, but I chose to work in rock and roll, silly me, and in my case the drawbacks far outweigh the perks. It's hard.

It's really hard to be a woman in rock and roll, not because boys are smelly, not because it's hard work, or the gear is heavy, or any of those stupid things.

People judge me before they meet me. I can get fired from a job without having worked a day, or without even meeting the band. I can be denied opportunities and employment based soley on my gender. Despite my skills and professionalism I often will be sent to the bottom of the pile of candidates for almost any position in music. I have to work twice as hard to prove I'm as good as a male half as good as me.

If I'm even remotely loud or direct I apparently come off as a bitch, whereas a male counterpart is taking charge. If I talk to a male in another band or crew, I'm flirting not talking, and of course, I can't lift anything because my womanly arms aren't strong enough.

While at home, I work for a sound production company. Whenever I walk into a venue with my boss, the clients always assume he's my father. At first this struck me as odd, since he's still fairly young, and not quite old enough to be my dad. When I asked a client why they thought he was my father, they responded with "Well, why else would he have hired you." No joke.

I was able to spin the situation in my favour, and now I jokingly refer to my boss as Dad on a regular basis, and it actually helps keep the creepy roadies from hitting on me while I'm trying to work.

So, with the help of the internet, I have posted this list for all touring bands and managers that refuse to hire a girl on their crew.

1. I kick ass at my job, and I take pride in a job well done.

2. I don’t want to fuck you

3. I don’t want to fuck any of the band or crew

4. You can tell your wives/girlfriends that

5. I don’t care who you fuck

6. I don’t care who any of the band/crew fuck

7. I wont tell your wife/girlfriend THAT

8 . I leave my personal life at home.

9. I don’t need any more privacy on the bus than you do

10. I won’t cry if I can’t get a shower everyday

11. I won’t cry if there is no mirror on the bus

12. I wont turn into an evil bitch when I get my period (that’s YOUR girlfriend) and yes I can still do my job and you probably wouldn’t even know

13. I have seen dicks before

14. I know what groupies are there for (duh)

15. I have seen/heard about EVERY sexual act performed in the dressing room/back lounge

16. I have seen/heard EVERYTHING you think a woman shouldn’t know about "the boys club"

17. I am and can be "one of the boys" (in fact, I’m probably more of a dude than some of the band)

18. I like guys, but I’m here to work, not to flirt.

19. I’m perfectly capable of lifting things on my own. If I need help lifting something I’ll ask for it.

20. I am a HUMAN BEING.

Please add here any other things that would prevent you from hiring a woman.

My Dad Could Beat Up Your Dad

To many, "Hallmark Holidays" like Valentines Day and Administrative Assistants Day can get overlooked, and in some cases it may not be a detriment, but I know very few people who pass over Mothers Day as though it were an option. Phone calls are made, bouquets are bought, and little hands work furiously gluing on macaroni to household objects. Mothers Day is a biggie, everyone has one, whether she's a step-mom (mines awesome!) a grandmother, or someone else, and everyone makes the effort to let "Mom" know shes appreciated.

Mothers Day to me isn't that big a deal, while I'm lucky enough to still have my mother, years of misunderstandings and family turmoil have pushed us apart. I still make a phone call every May, and send a card to an important woman in my life, but to me, Fathers Day is what really matters.

Call me a Daddy's Girl, I won't deny it. In fact, I'll be the first to admit that my dad and I are really close. It wasn't always this way, but sometimes I think that it's really how it needed to be. It took me a while to realize how similar I am to my Dad, and how the things I though divided us were really the things that united us and made us even closer and how my Dad is really one of the best people in the entire world.

My father, was the first person I looked at, ever. He tells me that I looked up at him with giant eyes and he was already proud of me. This man, became the greatest man I will ever know, just like that. There are little things that a girl needs her daddy for, someones got to teach her how to ride a bike, someones got to buy her her first guitar and someones got to be the one to say "Yes" when Mom said "No." My Dad taught me how to use my voice, how to sing what I feel and how to speak my mind. He taught me how to write, whether it be songs, or essays or facebook updates, there is a little bit of my Dad in my prose.

I was lucky, because my Dad, he taught me how to cook. If my mother's culinary skills were the only example I had, I would have starved by now. Thanks to my Dad, I make the BEST grilled cheese sandwich known to man. My Dad, also taught me about politics, the politics of right and wrong, the politics of social dynamics and the politics of our country. He's probably the smartest person I know, and was always encouraging me to ask questions and he'd always answer so I understood.

My ultimate protector (My Dad COULD beat up your Dad), my greatest inspiration, and the best cheering squad I could ask for. He really is my one man back up band, and I am "Daddy's Little Roadie" and together we are a dream team.

The best part about my Dad, is that he admits when he's wrong, and he's humble. He doesn't boast about frivolous things and is my example for humility and keeping things in perspective. My father is a global thinker, and I'm lucky that his thoughts have rubbed off on me. He's never told me that I can't do something, he sees me running down a hundred different career paths, and has never told me that I have to choose just one. My Dad lives for the moment, and today, and encourages me to do the same.

When I opened my eyes for the first time, and looked into that face of his, I wonder if he knew, 24 years later how proud I'd be to call him Dad.

Happy Fathers Day

xo

"Sorry, I Don't Talk Politics"

In my recent initiative to encourage Canadians to cast their ballots, I've started many a public, political debate. In coffee shops, pubs, restaurants and street corners (and it's only been 3 days!). Many attempts at political discussion have been met with replies of "Sorry I don't talk politics in public" which is a handy and polite way of getting out of a discussion. Unfortunately, it's only one in every three people I meet that are actually willing to even talk about talking politics, and I feel like maybe "I don't talk politics" is code for "I don't understand politics."

So I decided to conduct a little experiment, I took to the streets of Vancouver and asked citizens a few basic questions about Canadian Politics.

Out of 100 people questioned on the street, 44% were aged 30 and under, 31% were aged 30-50, and 25% were age 50 and above.

When asked how many political parties we had in Canada 62% of citizens responded with 4, commonly siting the Conservatives, the Liberals and the NDP and a fluctuating response of Green Party or Marijuana Party as the 4th selection. Only 2% responded that we had 17 registered political parties, while 24% responded with 5, Liberals, Conservatives, NDP, Green Party and Marijuana Party, and 12% responded with 3, Liberals, NDP and Conservatives.

When asked who the most recent Prime Minister was before Stephen Harper 76% of Vancouverites questioned responded with Paul Martin while 24% responded with Jean Chretien.

Just for fun, when asked the name of the Spouse of The Prime Minister 18% answered correctly, while 82% didn't know. When asked the name of President Obama's wife 100% responded correctly with Michele.

While I'm not a fan of numbers, my curiosity got the better of me and I sat down with my calculator and broke down my statistics into age groups.

For question one, 80% of 18-30 year olds believed there to be 4 political parties in Canada and for 42% of 18-30 year olds surveyed believed Jean Chretien to be the last Prime Minister of Canada before Harper. As for the first name of Mrs.Harper, 5% of 18-30 year olds responded correctly, which means 95% of the 44, 18-35 year olds questioned didn't know her name was Laureen.

With a such a startling report card, it's no wonder young people don't talk politics. Most of my generation skipped a Prime Minister, and forgot about at least one Political Party.

I haven't conducted a formal survey of our understanding of elections and the electoral process, but from my discussions with peers over the last few days I can tell you that many 18-30 year olds don't understand where their vote goes, how it affects the process or even how to vote. Many people still feel voting is an inconvenience and a hassle to do, when really all you need is a piece of ID to prove who you are, a piece of official mail to prove where you live if it differs from your ID, or someone to vouch for you to say you are who you say you are, like a roommate or friend.

One thing we have learned is how to disassociate ourselves from politics, and boy do our leaders like that. With a lack of civics classes in schools, and a brief glance over the electoral process and politics in most junior high Social Studies classes, by the time we are eligible to vote, we’ve either forgotten everything we knew in sixth grade, or we have no clue about our government. Our main concern of should be teaching young voters how to utilize the power of their ballot, the function of our government and how to make the changes they wish to see. This is the first step in implementing change in our democratic system and it’s time to close the gap and let our politicians know that we’re here and we want change!

To those that say, “I don’t talk politics” I say, “Talk!” Involve each other in government, via discussion, talk about politics, teach politics and challenge yourself to learn politics!

"Sorry, But I Don't Vote"

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.

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!

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 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.

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.

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.

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

Mosquito Bites

As I lay in bed this morning, way earlier than anticipated for a holiday Friday, I heard my phone vibrate. Bzzzzz.....Bzzzzz....but wait, I could have sworn my phone was on silent, and then I felt it. The familiar sting, and itch of a mosquito bite. The first of the year.

Just as blood thirsty as the bill collectors who wake me from my sleep the mosquitos had descended on me like a plague. Two mosquitos in my 210sqft apartment is like 50 in a house, you'd think they'd get full and leave me alone but no. I was rendered helpless in my half awake state merely batting at the air and moaning "Not the face, Not the Face!!"

I guess I should have expected this. I mean it is April after all. Seasons are changing and just like Fall when it turns to Winter the energy in the air changes. People change, and mother nature is re-born, mosquitos and all.

Thinking about these mosquitos I grew hungry. Not for food, although Theresa's Tofu Scramble is the Nectar of the Gods, but for life.

Being recently and abruptly single catapulted me into a spiral of self flagellation and sadness, I rapidly hit rock bottom in two days, and then had nowhere to go but up.

I came home from work one evening, with a vision in my head, an image I needed to paint, or draw or stencil. Something I hadn't done in a long time. I frantically cleaned my apartment, the urge to create fueling my tidy, then sat down and drew.

I woke up the next morning and showered. Didn't put on any make-up, didn't put on my breast armour (one push up bra with extra padding that weighs about 4 pounds, and a sports bra to keep in all in).

Back to original Jus.

Jus without pretending. Just Jus. 100%.

and I realized we'd been strangers for a long time. We had been so different, long lost pals.

And despite the itching on my face, the mosquito bite awakening, and the groggy sleep still clouding my brain, unable to tell which were the mosquito bites and which were my breasts, I felt amazing.

Springtime mosquitos don't always get welcomed with open arms, but to me this morning, they were a sign of all that has been re-born for me. Recovered from the depths of snow and cold.

I'm back baby, and I'm beautiful.

BAND WANTED!

I Jus, am looking for a band.

Requirements:

-ACTUALLY play something, not just pretend to...
-must like more than just metal.
-need to be chill, and open minded
-good collaborater


Potential Names For Said Band:

"Bedroom Life of Josephine Butler"
"Six Run Creek"
"Mountain Pigeon"
"Lonely Hearts of Ronkswood"
"Court Circular Incest"
"Happy Hour Make Out Squad"
"Stukley's Mutiny"
"Hindenburg Happy Hour Special"
"Juice and the Prep School Bullies"

Discuss.

Just Call Me Donna Reed.

As I woke from my slumber and stumbled out of bed I suddenly got hit with that primal urge to nest, and make the bed. I moved into the kitchen, desperately trying to ignore the 6ft 4inch blond behemoth in his tightie whities obstructing my path, and proceeded to make coffee. I then wiped down the counter and did last nights late night snack dishes that were left out. As I reached for the snack bowl, hands covered in suds, it hit me. I have become domesticated. Am I becoming my father (if you knew my mother you'd understand)? I tried to shake off this realization as I turned on the dishwasher and began moving last nights pasta casserole into tupperware. Maybe I'm not the only one. Maybe this is a right of passage, like your first kiss, and the first guy you punch out, or for those of you with normal childhoods, your first apartment.

Have I been bred for this? After a sufficient amount of wild and reckless dish washing habits, and lack of sweeping and putting food away is there a chemical that triggers me to tame my feral and savage ways?

Finally I pinned it down. It came to one four letter word....

B-R-A-D.

Yes, Brad.

It seems as of late there's a trend that I am now officially a part of. Maybe it's the cold of winter, maybe it's the holidays and family, maybe some beacon went off igniting our collective (if not slightly accelerated) biological clocks, or maybe the flood is coming. Regardless it seems we are pairing up like Noah's Ark.

Brad is my significant other. My main squeeze. The bread to my butter, and all those vomit inducingly cute things to say. I've been staying in his house for the last few days, and have rapidly fallen into a routine of cooking, and cleaning and tidying. I'm waiting for Donna Reed to present me with my string of freshwater pearls for my accomplishments in housewifery. Except that I think she might be dead. Is it a sign of maturity, or neurosis that I vacuum his living room, and clean his sheets. Is it love or just madness.

Maybe I'm becoming my father. The kind of person who cleans up your plate before you've finished your sandwich. Maybe I'm settling in. Maybe I'm just growing up, oh god......

All I know is that if one more dish gets put away dirty, I swear to God, I'll take another vicodin and wash it down with gin. Straighten my pearls, iron my apron, and scrub it till it sparkles again.

And then I'll make a roast.

Ok America....yes, I Love you, but you're weird.

That little cousin you have that likes to pull your toes. Your best friend in High School who started the Star Trek/Lord of the Rings combo LARP club. (live action role play, for those a little less nerdy) Or that dog you grew up with, the one who liked to bring you rocks, instead of sticks, and liked to eat your blue socks.

This is how I feel about America. Specifically, California. I love you, but you're weird.

Being Canadian born and raised and only venturing outside the safe borders of the land of the Maple Leaf one year ago, I had a skewed version of what America would be like. You see, America to me is exactly like the movies. It's Canada, but with a few more issues. It's the intimidating big city where dreams come true. It's the typical small town where your roots always lie. It's magical and terrifying.

Well. America. You are all these things. You are all these things and so much more.

America to me feels like home, especially since Canada has always felt like the little sister to America. Trying hard to be as cool as it, but never quite getting there. So, I love America. I love the way you can have four different climates in one country at one time. I love the skewed cultural ambiguity. I love Football.

I love that little cousin, he's adorable and sweet. I love that friend from high school, he could make me laugh no matter what. I love that old dog, who curled up in my legs to sleep. Regardless of this love there's still the LARPing, the toe pulling and the sock eating to contend with. America is not exempt.

It started at the Bellingham Airport in Washington. I was lucky enough to score a flight to Los Angeles for $38 out of Bellingham, and living in Vancouver it's a quick $25 bus ride out of town. In the Bellingham Airport I was greeted by a Washington State Trooper, who talked to me for at least a half hour about what it's like to be a Trooper (sounds impressive, it really isn't). He kept referring to me as his "Friendly neighbour to the North" and yeah, it's a small town, not a busy airport. I get people telling me boring stories all the time. Maybe it's just me, I attract mind-numbingly boring stories. What got me was that sitting behind him was a sign that read "Dear Passengers, Please be sure that your Firearms are in your CHECKED baggage, not in your carry-on. If firearms are found in your carry-on baggage you will be charged $50 fee and will then be asked to place them in your Checked baggage. Please also be sure that your firearms are not loaded and in a hard shell case. Thank You"

Well. Naturally I felt reassured. That $50 fee is really going to deter people from bringing guns on a plane. Thank goodness for that sign. If however, as a Canadian, I were to fly across the border, I can't even have anything on my lap during the flight.

The mailboxes and newspaper boxes threw me for a loop when I first saw them. Being a film and television technician, I see these mailboxes all the time. Usually when I'm carting one off a set-dec truck. Not so much when I'm actually buying a newspaper or mailing a letter. It just made America feel a little like a movie set to me. On that note: Mail Service on Saturdays? No wonder the Postal Workers of America are pissed.

The grocery store, Walmart, Target, Etc. They have aisles and aisles of liquor. This is not weird. This is just AWESOME.

Bars also open at 6AM in California, this is a booze-hound's dream. Wake-up, go to the bar, drink, go to work, drink, come home, drink, go to the bar, drink, pass out in the alley for a few hours, repeat. Except that the beer here tastes like someone splashed a little beer in a glass of soda water. I seriously have to pee every ten seconds when I drink American beer. I also look like a rockstar when I, a 125lb (er....sure, 125lbs) fairly slight, blonde can down ten beers without blinking an eye, Thank God for adult diapers.

Mmm Also, CHEESE is ridiculously cheap. It's awesome. My father, who spends $100 on cheese a week would feel like he died and went to heaven. Huge wedges of Jarlsberg for $4.50, Parmesan, Asiago, Romano, THREE BUCKS! Old English Extra Aged Cheddar 5 bucks! These are all fairly sizable chunks here too people. I'm talking Chuck E Cheese sizes not Stuart Little.

So, Firearms, cheese, booze, mailboxes.

When I come home, or into someones house, my first instinct is to take off my shoes. Well I was met with looks of shock, disgust, inquiry and mild displeasure when I did this after arriving at my destination. Apparently clean socks on carpets and furnishings are much more disgusting and rude than shoes that have been outdoors walking through the dirty streets of LA and Vancouver. These are shoes that have tread through the drug addicted areas of East Vancouver, through the urine and heroin and spit. Shoes that have walked through mud and remnants of dog feces, maybe human feces, and have tread the alcohol soaked floors of many a night club and bar. This, is okay to have in your house, but god forbid you save the carpets and furnishings and expose your socks! gasp.

Kraft Dinner. The staple of the student and those of us desperately grasping on to student status and milking it for all we can. "What did you have for lunch today baby?" asked my American boyfriend, Brad. "Oh I just whipped up a box of KD. There's some left in the fridge if you want some." I was met with a stare that rivaled the shoes in the house incident mentioned above. "You mean Macaroni and Cheese?" he replied. KD. KD is not Macaroni and cheese. I mean, yes, technically it is, but Macaroni and cheese implies nutrition and effort and a crispy cheesy top, maybe a cracker crust bottom, and 20 mins baking at 350 degrees. KD is the closest thing to cardboard the FDA will approve as edible. Soooo not Macaroni and Cheese. Plus, it tastes different, KD feels like it has more artificial flavour, something that "Kraft Mac and Cheese Dinner" is seriously lacking.

My spell check is currently fighting me and pissing me off with these underlined red words. Flavour, Neighbour, Colour. Yeah. With a U. Deal with it Spell Check!

Ketchup Chips. The greatest invention in the snack food world. Non existent in America. Which is weird, because they're made by Lay's, both countries have Lay's chips, so why wouldn't both countries have Ketchup Chips. So tragic for the Americans.

I also had a heck of a time trying to convince Brad that Smarties were:
A)Not a compressed sugar snack known to Canadians as "Rockets"
B)Not the same as M&Ms. They taste nothing alike.
So I brought him some, "These taste like M&Ms." GAH!

You know. America, you're awesome, with your trash TV. Your Pinkberry Fro-yo. Your random celebrities on the street. You're great. You have NFL and gigantic freeways. Apparently you also have handsome men. America, you and me, we're bros. I love you, but you're weird.

Oh yeah, don't even get me started on Fahrenheit and the Imperial system....we'll be here for days.

Tweet In Peace....

You're born. You live. You die. Your legacy is left as the memories people have of you. You are eternal in their eyes, in their hearts, in their lives, and their laptops.

I have recently lost a few friends at tragically young ages, to different, unexpected circumstances. In all cases technology has played a large role in the grieving process. In one case, I was notified of a dear friends passing by receiving a text message after my plane landed. In another, and several other cases, I was notified on Facebook by a status update reading RIP. I have been invited to memorial pages for friends of mine that I had no idea had died, and it's not that I'm not great friends with them, it's just that they live far away or are important people from my past. It's like logging on to Facebook and in my news feed it reading "You have 1 dead friend."

Now with the onslaught of status updates and profile pictures and virtual communication one has to wonder, what if this tweet is my last?

Your twitter page, your Facebook profile, your Myspace will forever serve as an online memorial of your life and your friends. It will serve as a way for your friends to mourn and grieve and in most cases it will always be there. Many people won't know your passwords, and your Facebook will be a preserved memory of you.

In a way this concept seems eerie to me, this long standing snapshot of your days as a living breathing human, and the realization that you are, in fact, dead. On the other hand I feel that this is a touching and effective way of remembering the past and your friendships. Your Facebook page reminding us all of how alive you were, and how much we all love you, your wall serving as a your guestbook, full of memories and testimonials of your character.

So when you go forth and tweet, ask yourself, what if this tweet were your last? What if these words were the last words we would ever read from you online?

And on that note, Tweet in peace my friends, and may you always be remembered on Facebook.

RIP Thomas, Andrew, Robert, and Alison.

Americano Polish Guinness Regrets.

Enough.

Enough of this sad sob story that some would call my summer.

This is ridiculous. Bad shit happened. I had to get over it. Summers over and I'm over it now.

I'm sitting in my amazing coffee shop in Vancouver, listening to the New Pornographers and drinking my coffee black. I've never had my coffee black before yesterday and that was because i simply forgot to put anything in my amazing Turk's americano. Large. $3.20

Coupled with an Apple Juice. Large. Cold. $1.20. and a cup of Ice cubes that are actually round.

I feel like i have become a coffee snob. One of those people who looks down on people who put shit in their coffee. People who don't know who the New Pornographers are. I already look down on people who use white sugar in their coffee when there's a brown sugar alternative.

What a bitch.

There's a handsome Polish man coding websites sitting next to me and a cloud of Guinness charged regrets hovering over me. Drunkenly went and spoke my mind. Scared the shit out of someone that I care about, and as much as I'd love to go back and make it all not happen, what some might call Regret, I can't really feel regret for having been honest. Drunkenly honest. But honest none the less.


Now i sit. A veritable BOWL of coffee before me. Myriad Harbour in my ears and a cute Polak coding next to me uttering words I sort of understand. Wondering what the heck is going to come at me next. Now that i'm a coffee snob I mean.

~j