Dear Sharron Angle

Did you really tell a classroom full of Latinos that the people sneaking through the fence in your political ad weren't Latino?
Did you really tell them that some of them look Asian?
Did you then say that the terrorists came from your Northern Border?

First of all, Nevada doesn't share a border with Canada.

Secondly...
Ms. Angle...
This is an Asian:

In fact, this Asian is Liu Xiabo, the latest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to fight for democracy in China.

This is a Canadian:

In fact, this Canadian is Ken Taylor, the Canadian ambassador to Iran during the revolution. Working with the CIA, he put himself and his staff at great personal risk to help American embassy staff to escape from Iran.

This is a Latino: 

In fact, this Latino is Jose Rosales, a handyman, a handyman who sent most of his wages back to his family. This handyman was also studying to become a priest. This handyman, Jose Rosales, was killed by home invading gunmen when they raided the home of his employers. This Latino gave his life  to protect the White America you hold so dear. He bled red blood as he died.

Time for the Tea Party to sit down and realize that solutions come from answers, not ignorance.

Excuse me... I ordered the "Ordinary" madness

"Writing about yourself isn't as fun as talking about yourself"

~ Briana "Glossy" Loca

A-to the fucking-men, sister.

When Polonius tells his son, Laertes, "To thins own self be true," does that include other people? I mean, if your honest to yourself about yourself, do you need to share it?

As I progress with the notes I'm making before I start the real work on LA Woman, I need to decide how much honesty I, personally, can put on the page. The scope of the book has grown considerably, which was to be expected I suppose. The way I do things, these projects often swell, then get pared back down to a reasonable size. Which brings me back to honesty?

How much is too much? Where do we enter the realm of TMI? Just because I am willing to share something, should I?

And lastly, what are friends and family going to think when they read an undiluted account of the last year of my life?

Blargh

So... the Great Turkey Fuck-Fest is over for another year and I seem to really be into napping. I managed to avoid the obligatory change to my Facebook status telling the world what I'm thankful for because, of the 830 people who do their damndest to ignore my inane little posts, the vast majority of them know that simply being alive is good enough for me at the moment.
In the past few weeks, I have been to more non-pub/house parties than I have in several years. One of them was even a dinner party... at a real restaurant and everything. It felt good. I do realize that I am thankful for friends and family, not that it was ever in real doubt, just kind of popped in to my head a little stronger than usual.
Chasing my cock too often leads to chasing my heart. When it doesn't, the end result is often the same. Go figure.
I'm just starting to wonder if my calendar age can continue to be so completely at odds with my ability to refuse to grow up that one day I might just implode. Thing is, I don't like 38 year old stuff. I don't want a mortgage. I want to use my Blackberry to take pictures of hot club girls instead of sending spreadsheets or whatever it is responsible people do with their Blackberries.
I don't mind waking up on the floor of recording studios and strange couches. Getting cock-blocked by moms is a bit tiring after a while, but I still can't help but smile when I'm told (by a third party quoting a cutie way below my age bracket) that "even though [I'm] older, [I'm] still really cool and fucking hot." Jesus man! Who doesn't want to hear that? (She managed to arrive in her own bed unbesmirched, I might add.)
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Sometimes it creates a gap, like a ferry sailing in the wrong direction, that causes you to feel the swim is too far, too hard, to get back to solid ground beneath your well worn Converse.
A dear friend of mine is having troubles with "the guy she likes" and I'm not being patronizing. Over a year ago, chatting on Facebook at two in the morning, she asked me what is was like to be in love. How the hell do I answer that? I could tell her, because I most certainly know. But should I?
It was her and her feelings of being a little more lost, a little more alone, than feels comfortable that really got me thinking tonight.
I think it's time to go to more parties. Playing King of the Castle is only fun when that castle actually represents a kingdom, not "a pile of shit" as was lovingly pointed out by a concerned friend.
So here's to those friends: the weak, the strong, the subtle, the loud.
Love you all.

Dinner anyone?

And so it begins... again

2010 was supposed to be my year. It was all perfect... then it all went to hell and the road to hell is paved with good intentions. When I told people about what happened, one of them commented that it was a great story and should be told. I suggested the Battle of Stalingrad was also a "great story" unless, of course, you happened to be living there at the time.
My problem with telling the story is it would force me to be more honest about myself in my writing than I ever have before. It was then that I realized that until I came clean to myself about exactly what happened, this demon would be sitting on my chest for much longer than I could let it. So I begin to write the story. Not here. What it will be when it is done, I don't know. Maybe I'll just launch the manuscript into a bonfire and be done with it. Who knows.
Working title: LA Woman

Gifts

To forget and be forgotten: two of life's greatest gifts it can give. Unfortunately for most of us, remembering and remembrance are the prices we pay for our living sins. There is no heaven, no hell, and no final judgement. It is an ongoing process, in which, we built our own hells and prisons. It is not necessarily a sad or depressing process. It is more like the buzzing mosquito in a dark room: the constant reminder that there are forces at work, preying upon us, which we will never catch, stop, or otherwise interrupt from their unstated goals.

Some Warren Zevon lyrics to ponder...

Well, I went to the doctor. I said, "I'm feeling kind of rough..." 

"Let me break it to you son; you're shit's fucked up!" 

I said, "My shit's fucked up? Well, I don't see how!" 

He said, "The shit that used to work, won't work now!" 

~

That amazing grace, thought it passed you by.

You wake up every day, and you start to cry.

You want to die but you just can't quit.

Let me break it on down; it's the fucked up shit.

Hair-brained Year-long Project #18284-F: The dress

Okay.

I have decided I am making a dress (no, not for me, thx).

I've always liked fashion. But I can't sketch, stitch, cut, or sew.

I am starting from scratch. But with my library card, my passion for ridiculous ideas, and my mom's sewing machine, I'm giving myself one year, 365 days, to design and make a dress. Why? Why the fuck not?

You've no one but yourselves to blame: When asses grow fat, thought grows thin

Paris Hilton is not capable of world domination; well, not by herself she isn't. People love to jump up and down about how we shouldn't care about where she goes, who she goes with, and what she's wearing when she gets there. I agree. But there is one aspect to the train wreck that is Paris Hilton that most people overlook: themselves.
Paris was born rich. There's no denying that. As the great-granddaughter of Conrad Hilton, one could hardly expect her to be poor. She modeled as a child and then "grew up" into a life of leisure and took her tiara as one of America's socialites. Then something awful happened...
Someone out there, you perhaps, decided what she did was newsworthy. Suddenly the cameras couldn't get enough of this young woman, and, like any other capitalist on the planet, she decided to use her new glory for her own ends. Can you blame her? No. I blame you.
Keep this in mind if you keep reading today's little diatribe...

This coming Friday (October 1, 2010), I'm going to a live music show at The Anza Club in Vancouver. You probably won't be there. If you go out that night maybe you'll be in a little cafe with a loved one; if so, you get a pass. If not, you might be in a club somewhere listening to garbage music made by someone's computer software. Then on the way home to catch Jersey Shore, you'll listen to your iPod and complain, complain about Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton...
You have no one but yourselves to blame.
If you don't like the state of popular music turn off MTV. Turn off your ultra-mainstream radios. Turn off.
Then turn ON.
If you don't like what is being delivered to you, stop delivery. Get off your ass and search out something better. It's out there. I promise.
The band I am going to see this Friday can be shamelessly classified as Country Music (among other genres). How often do I hear people say they "HATE" Country Music only to add, "but I like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson."? What you hate is bad Country Music. Find some good stuff. Right now you are sitting in the rain complaining about being wet. If you move, shelter can be found. I think some of you just like to complain.
Some people seek refuge in the old albums, Classic Rock, etc... I have no problem with these bands and their music has lasted because it was good. But how do you find new Pop Music that is good? Make Good Music popular.
We created Paris Hilton just as Frankenstein created his monster. Not everything we create has to be bad. Find good music. Buy the CD. Buy the shirt. Tell your friends. Give Good Music the ear it deserves.

First they came for the music lovers...

See you at the show... someday.

Guh...

This pic just floated across my Internet goggles...
Below is a new picture of "alt-model", Apnea - Amanda Pemberton to her friends and recent fiancee, photographer, Chase Lisbon. As far as I am concerned, Apnea's eyes have always been what set her apart from the other models in her field (despite the fact this tattooed cutie is amazingly flexible).
I'm reposting this pic because it caught me as different, another new look for this little chameleon. Looks as though she's channeling Pris (Blade Runner) in this one with some Harley Quinn (Batman) and Conan the Barbarian thrown in for good measure. Whether the ghosting was done during or post, I don't know but it certainly adds to the feeling this image provokes.
If you have some time (and you're not at work), swing by her blog. It's a fun collection of picture sets, cats, cookies, and travel stories.

photo credit: Nathan Appel

Kool Shit for Cooler Seasons: Viktor & Rolf Fall/Winter 2010

Designers have their Fall/Winter shows the previous spring. Got it? So these are from March of this year from the show in Paris. Yeah, I like bums and boobs, gazes and gams, etc, etc, etc... But I also love good clothes. These are my favs from this collection. Think of me of the Mr. Burns of fashion: I know what I hate and I don't hate this...

Viktor & Rolf: Fall/Winter 2010

(Paris, March 2010)

Drunk Video Version of Previous Post

What do you say that this Saturday we throw a bunch of bigoted pea-brains on a bonfire?

As the clock ticks down to possibly the dumbest idea in recent history, one can't help but wonder what burning the Quran could possibly accomplish in any positive sense. I watched a clip from an interview with one of this church's pastors replayed on MSNBC today. In the clip, the pastor said they just wanted to expose something that everyone already knew. Um... that's not exposure; that's exploitation. Somehow, the idea of deliberately pissing off a group of people (albeit small) just to egg this group into doing what the group are doing already doesn't seem to prove the point they wanted.
For me, watching two airplanes soar into the World Trade Center seemed to be evidence enough that a minute faction of radicalized Islamic fanatics wanted to rain death on the West. The idea of deliberately pissing them, and all Muslims, off just doesn't register with me as a terribly well thought out plan. The pastors of this church claim that the radical elements they are sending this message to cannot be reasoned with. The pastors of this church also stated that nothing and no one could dissuade them from going through with the book burning. This too sounds like radicalized religious zealots who "cannot be reasoned with".
The US needs to realize the road they are being led down by reactionary forces. Too many of its politicians (on both sides of the aisle) are trying too hard to merely get elected to govern a country that will lay in ruins if their governing is anything like their campaigning.
I'd be interested to see figures as to which has more members: Al-Qaeda or whack-job, splinter-Christian churches in the US.
Hope, however, is not lost. Also on MSNBC, I saw an interview with the pastor of a Tennessee church that had opened its doors to local Muslims building a mosque and community centre beside them. With the centre still incomplete, the Heartsong Church of Cordova, TN, invited their Muslim neighbours to use their church for evening prayers and feasts during Ramadan. When I first Googled this, Google News had over 6000 stories about the Quran burning and only 15 about the openess and tolerance shown by the congregation at the Heartsong Church. Go figure.

Mere survival

A dear friend of mine was lamenting her lot in life. Not in a pitiful or whiny way, but in the way people in their early-20s often think when the world jumps up and bites them in the ass. There is nothing wrong with someone wanting the world to be a fair place to live. I just don't know how far I should push my existentialist belief when it comes to dealing with her.

Life is not about mere survival; it is about living. But, to my way of thinking, one cannot live until they have freed themselves from the belief that life was, is, or will be fair. The only meaning to life is that which we give it.

Some may find this bleak. It isn't. Living without delusions is the freest and happiest a person can truly be. We just have to get there. My worst delusion is believing this is entirely possible.

BSC

Things that make you go "hmmm" right before you go "What the F***?"

At what point does a tactless thought actually become a crime? I've never been a big fan of hate crime legislation. Not because I love to dream racist, homophobic, or misogynist scenarios but because I believe that curbing such thought should be done through education and the occasional public flogging as opposed to legislation.

But is tact a qualifier of whether or not something is hate speech? Let us hope not.

For instance, there's a sick little bastard in me that would probably enjoy Justin Bieber being repeatedly kicked in the shin or held down while someone tattooed "KICK ME" on his forehead. Though it's probably not worth it to put it on his forehead because no one could see it with his combination Twiggy/Donny Osmond haircut. Now, I'm not calling for it to happen or putting out a bounty or anything but still...

Then there's Snooki.

I've decided I've wanted a Snooki bobblehead for Xmas. Doesn't have to be her real head. It can be plastic if that's easier and within the laws of your nation.

Does music soothe the savage beast?

I was lamenting the fact that I met someone this weekend who I was unable to contact again. Walking up the hill at about 1am this morning, my iPod was rattling my skull. I usually don't listen to my iPod walking up this hill in the dark; we have a bear and a cougar roaming about, and they, like I, do not like to be surprised. I was taking the risk. Did I mention I was really really drunk? My feet weren't quite dragging and my mind was racing thinking about her, it, them.

"60 Feet Tall" by The Dead Weather was bouncing around my head at full volume.
No bear.
No cougar.
A coyote dropped by for a visit. We spend a moment looking at each other. My music was loud enough for it to hear. It nodded and scampered off into the undergrowth.

*Turns out my Cinderella has a fella. Oh well.
The coyote and I have a plan.

photo by Ruth Swanson

Here's a wee story for yeh...

So I'm watching TV and an ad comes on, trying to get me to pay some service to track down my family history. For my mother's family, The Bradfords, I'd ask my Great Aunt. She seems to have it pretty much down. For my father's family, The McQueens then Camerons, I need go no farther than my bookcase.

My great great great grandfather, Alexander McQueen, was born in Contrea, Invernesshire, Scotland. He came to Nova Scotia with a contingent of Scottish soldiers to reinforce the 82nd British Army Regiment. Apparently they were having a problem with some pesky colonists to the south. The year was 1778. He was 30.

After [losing] the American War of Independence, Alexander was given property in Nova Scotia. According to the Royal Nova Scotia Historical Society, Alexander McQueen was the first McQueen in Nova Scotia. That's kind of cool...

My father's mother was a descendant of Alexander McQueen.

Below are Alexander's papers for his honourable discharge from the King's Army and the McQueen clan badge.

My father's step-father, Colin Cameron, was born in Glasgow in 1900. When Colin was five, his father, David (a Glasgow dock worker) decided to move the family to Canada. They lived on a farm in the Fort Steele area of British Columbia's East Kootenay region. My grandfather was a trapper, a B.C. Forest Service ranger, and eventually a lumberman, starting Colin Cameron Lumber in 1942. He died in 1963. I never met him.

My grandmother died in 1985. Both sources I consulted for this blog, talk of her love of music and her piano. She left it to me in her will and it sits seven feet to the right of me as I write this entry.

Below are pictures of Colin and Queenie on their wedding day, Colin's logging camp and a pay stub, and the Cameron clan badge, as tattooed on my right shoulder.

I think this stuff is pretty cool. You may not share my enthusiasm for my father's family but I posted this, not for my father's family, but in the hopes that you might take an interest in your own. We are all connected to history so we all share the stewardship of the future.

This little stroll down someone else's memory lane retold from The McQueen Story by my great aunt, Phylis McQueen Smith; my great uncle, Archie McQueen; with memorabilia supplied by my grandmother, Margaret "Queenie" McQueen Cameron. I also used pieces written for Kootenay Ripples: Wasa, Ta Ta Creek, Skookumchuck by Scott Owen, Frances West, and Ken Roberts.