Reel

I fear I may be people-watching myself to death. My style-envy is breaking me down to a nervous wreck. Look how beautiful! Everyone is beautiful! Shiver, shiver, gnash.

That more or less summarizes my feelings in Manhattan, which is really out of this world. But last night I went on that date (I know, I’m crazy to go on a date in a city I’ll be leaving in 3 days) to Brooklyn. Ahhh, what a relief. Brooklyn is normal, at last, by Montreal standards. I was trying to get a cocktail (vs a mixed drink) and it was almost as hard as getting one on St. Laurent. Every bar we tried was really a pub. And when I decided we should find girls in heels and ask them, it was actually really hard to find any of those. It’s like the real-life version of everything unreal across the river. Anyway, we found two great places: one where we had dinner, I can’t remember the name, and the tiniest waitress took our order; and the bar we finally settled on. Loved it. I think it’s called Charleston and it’s only a couple of months old. The walls are covered in red pleather, with mismatched buttons. The bar stools are each covered in a different and exciting (yes) pattern. The barman is an Argentinean ex-pat who looks like a collision between Robert Smith (of the Cure, for you young ones who don’t know who that is) and Severin Snape (of Harry Potter, for you old ones). Luscious. The jukebox was all Depeche Mode, Pogues, The Slits, Pulp, Roxy Music, and I can’t remember what else I chose. I had a million Cosmos and Robert Snape gave us one on the house, I have no idea why.

Other things I’ve done lately: took the Staten Island Ferry; went to the free night at MoMA; took the M1 bus all the way from Battery Park to the Museum, crossing all neighbourhoods in between and thereby giving myself a little tour; skipped going to the Museum of Natural History to go shopping instead; got a DKNY cashmere scarf from my cousin’s roommate because she doesn’t like the colour on her; and saw a great exhibit at the Museum of Art & Design by the Droog group.

Tired of Titles, still in New York, 4 whole days left

I always forget how un-pretentious Montreal is until I come to New York. I'm in this cafe I found on my second try looking for free wireless access and no hassle. Maybe everyone in this place comes here everyday and knows each other by name, but somehow I doubt that's why I became the instant focus of all the patrons as soon as I walked in. I think, and this is just a theory, that they were scoping me out, because that's what hipsters do, don't they? They size you up (clothes, hair, attitude, accessories) so that they can compare and allot you a space on the ruler either above or below themselves. Or... maybe that's just what *I* do. Heh.

Anyway, they play really good music that I don't know and the guy behind the cash IGNORED me for about a minute and then was simultaneously attentive and morose. Funny. He has professionally "just out of bed and still hungover" hair. I can see the product in it. But he did offer me half-and-half so that was nice.

I went to Soho today to check out a building I read about in the Village Voice. It's 11 Spring Street, and apparently it's been some sort of focus point for all kinds of street artists (visual, not performance) in the city. There's some legend behind the whole thing, but the point was that this is where I'd find my favourite flavour of expression in a city that's progressively cracking down on it. In the article there was also a reference to another building in the area that might replace this one as graffiti mecca once it gets turned into condos. But there was no address for the second building, only something about an "old candy factory" and the name of the street it's on. I was walking along it, looking for a plausible ex-candy factory, when I saw a guy who looked like he could help. An artist. I mean, he was wearing paint-stained clothes, aviator glasses and was rolling a cart full of canvases, I assumed he was an artist. Good guess, eh? He pointed me in the right direction, gave me another address, and invited me to an opening on Friday night. He also invited to an exhibition he's already showing at, and said to drop by the corner where'd he be trying to sell some old paintings, but I didn't do that. I might go to the opening though. One of the guys I met at the dinner on Christmas Eve texted me about going out this weekend, so that might be an option.

The other thing I've done a lot of here is see movies. I just saw Notes on a Scandal, which opened today. It stars Cate Blanchett and Dame Judi Dench, as well as the guy who played the aging rocker in Love, Actually. Judi Dench is impressive. She gave me the willies. It's my second Cate Blanchett movie this week. She's also in The Good German, which I think I wrote about below. God, is she ever stupid in this one ("Notes..."). I mean, her character, of course. Stupid, stupid. Tonight I'm going to see Shortbus, which IMDB describes as "A group of New Yorkers caught up in their romantic-sexual milieu converge at an underground salon infamous for its blend of art, music, politics, and carnality." Great. Besides those, and just to keep track, I also saw David Lynch's latest, Inland Empire (bee-zar) and one with Judy Garland where she marries an alcoholic hasbeen actor.

Ahh, anyway, gotta leave to see that Shortbus one. I heard it snowed in Montreal. I am truly jealous.

email para mi mama

Que mas? A veces me pillo pensando que no he hecho suficiente, y luego me recuento lo que he hecho y me doy cuenta de soy muy exigente, porque en realidad, he hecho harto. Claro que siempre se puede mas, y todo depende del temperamento.

Una cosa que me doy cuenta es que me gusta estar sola en Nueva York. Claro que seria rico un poco de compania para ir a tomarse algo, conocer algun club, etc, pero si tuviera que elegir blanco o negro, prefiero estar sola que acompanada en esta ciudad llena de posibilidades y divagaciones. Asi puedo siempre hacer lo que yo quiero sin preguntar que le parece a otra persona, sin miedo a latear. Por ejemplo: hoy me levante tarde, sin culpa porque estoy de vacaciones, me puse bluyines con el piyama y sali a buscar la nueva edicion del Village Voice que esperaba con ansiedad. Me servi un cafe con leche, jugo y tostadas y lei. Despues de la ducha, fui al Carlton Arms a ver si encontraron mi mascara para dormir que no encuentro. De ahi, cruce la plaza Madison y los turistas sacandole fotos al Flatiron Building, y baje a Soho a buscar un edificio acerca del cual lei en el Voice, cubierto de grafittis. Como no lo encontraba, pare a un artista en la calle para pedir direcciones (tenia la ropa manchada de pintura y llevaba varios cuadros, supuse que era artista). Me invito a una inauguracion el viernes en que expondra una pieza. Pasando por las boutiques del barrio (que creo es el de Felicity), encontre el edificio y le saque hartas fotos, que luego pondre en Flickr. Hoy hacia frio y me congele sacando las fotos asi que entre a un cafe frances y pedi un croissant y un te, deliciosos. Camine al cine Angelika y vi la muy nueva pelicula Notes on a Scandal, con Cate Blanchett y Dame Judi Dench. Ella, espectacular en su rol. Me dio escalofrios su personaje. Entonces se habia hecho oscuro y tome el metro devuelta al departamento, me hice algo para comer y lei un par de capitulos de la novela de Ernesto que me regalaste. Esta super buena. Me llego un mensaje de texto de un chileno que conoci en la comida de navidad, invitandome a salir manana o pasado y me llamo la Pepi para ir al cine esta noche, quizas. Ahora tome el laptop y me vine a un cafe a la vuelta y escribo esto. Te parece poco?

(creo que ahorrare tiempo y copiare esto mismo que te escribi en mi blog)

Isabel

Navidad neoyorquina

(nota: los acentos son al gusto del computador, y no reflejan mi capacidad de reconocer donde debería haber uno y no hay)
Supongo que esto se esta convirtiendo un poco en un travelog para los propósitos de este viaje a Nueva York. Resumiendo lo dicho anteriormente en ingles, vine a pasar navidad y ano nuevo, diez días. Había conseguido una reserva en mi hotel favorito pero a ultimo minuto se acordó que podía quedarme en el departamento de mi prima en el East Village mientras ella esta de visita en Chile. En realidad, el departamento es de su roommate, Josefina, también chilena.

Anoche fui a una cena de navidad a la que fui muy gentilmente invitada por mi amiga Pepi. También eran principalmente chilenos, con la excepción de españoles, argentinos y un americano. Lo pase divino. La comida, hecha por un amigo chef de la Pepi, incluía gnoccis caseros, salmón a punto con salsa de mantequilla y alcaparras, y peras asadas con crema de postre. Delicioso! Podrán hacerse una idea del grupo por el hecho revelador de que la parte baile de la noche consistió en un montón de videos de “divas” (Liza Minelli, Grace Jones, Shirley Bassey, Cyndi Lauper, Raffaella Carra, etc). En un pequeño intercambio de regalos, me lleve una botellita de champaña, hurra! La voy a guardar para el ano nuevo, lógico.

Ah, y a las 5am me di cuenta de que había perdido un mensaje de mi hermano, desde Santiago, recibido a las 11pm. Ups. Ultra desconectada.

Esta mañana me fui a la catedral de San Patricio, la famosa y bella iglesia con un altar diseñado por Louis Tiffany, a oír la misa del mediodía. Llegue a la hora perfecta, cuando todo el mundo de la misa anterior iba saliendo, así que conseguí un excelente asiento. A mi lado se sentó una señora (de pelo blanco, muy de peluquería), con un tremendo abrigo de piel, y una cartera Gucci (creo). A la hora de la colecta confirme que era neoyorquina, del barrio, porque uso uno de los sobres que entrega la parroquia, y le había puesto una estampilla con su nombre y dirección. Muy tierna la señora, le ayude a ponerse el (pesadísimo) abrigo al terminar la ceremonia. La misa estuvo muy cantada, lo cual agrego emoción a toda la situación de estar ahí, en la misa de navidad de San Patricio, cantando Hark the Herald Angels Sing, rodeada de gente de todo el mundo.

Volví al departamento después de comprarme una tajada de pizza cubierta de zini, esa pasta en forma de tubito. O sea, cerdo, y rico. Leí un poco mas de la novela de Ernesto Ayala (la Pepi me regalo la suya anoche así que enseguida leeré esa) y dormí toda la tarde. Ahora creo que voy a aprovechar que es navidad, feriado, y tomarme la noche con tranquilidad. Quizás encenderé la tele de la Carmencita por primera vez. Parece que dan Sex & the City todos los días a las 11pm.

Christmas Eve with my mouth open

Not disappointed by my fifth visit to New York is an understatement. I was almost moved to tears at the famous toy store FAO Schwartz this afternoon. It is kid heaven. Heaven. There are giant stuffed animals that are practically life-sized. A woolly mammoth will cost obliging parents or grandparents $12,000. That’s US dollars. They still have the “Big” piano that Tom Hanks played on during the movie of the same name. They do this show, with two animators hopping to familiar tunes, and then they invite the kids (and adults!) to give it a whirl. $250,000 if you want to play at home.

But there are more things. There’s a huge section devoted to dolls that is mind-blowing. You can make any doll you want. You can buy designer dolls for hundreds of thousands of dollars. And then, because every little girl knows that the biggest dream is to become a doll oneself (and, mostly, wear her clothes), there’s the costume section with every article required to become a real princess. Only kid sizes, though.

The “boys” side has a human-sized Chewbacca made of Lego. There’s also Batman, the grizzly guy from Lord of the Rings, and a downtown skyline, all out of Lego. There’s an outdoor game that apparently “combines basketball, volleyball and a trampoline”. It’s pretty big. There’s also some kind of rocket simulator the size of my kitchen. Are you getting all of this? In a toy store.

Anyway. I could go on naming every game of laser tag, carpet skates, antique automatons and multitude of dinosaurs I saw, but what for? You must go. It’s just past the giant, glowing Apple logo seemingly floating in a glass box the size of a small house. Yes, right next the Apple Store, that’s right.

Maybe my senses were heightened because I had just come from Barney’s. Oh my God. You know, I don’t really like to shop. I have some childhood trauma (thanks, Dad) about spending money (“fine, spend the money, but first, you must pass this 98-question test about whether it’s really worth it”). And in particular, I’m not a good clothes shopper. I like my clothes like I like my food: bland. Or so I thought. Until I ran into a $300 flowy blouse that I *might* want to wear sometime, with the skinny jeans I don’t own, and some $200 ballet slipper shoes I also don’t own. But wouldn’t it be great?

Honestly, I never thought I liked clothes that much until I saw these. For these, I would break my previous “single most expensive item of clothing I own” record, which now stands at US$130 (and was totally worth it).

Meanwhile, on my US$50 a day New York budget, I walked down to the flagship Louis Vuitton store on 5th Avenue to have a look at Olafur Eliasson’s window display. He’s a very up-and-coming Icelandic artist that works out of Germany, in case you didn’t know. Of course, I didn’t actually go into LV because there are some stores that I’m just not worthy of. When I went into Prada at the Bellagio, it required some major psych-ing up, and I’m on vacation here. I also looked at the incredibly theatrical window display at Bergdorf Goodman, and then headed across the street to Central Park to check out the skating rink.

I’m doing some recon of rinks, in case I decide to finally go skating. This one’s bigger than the one at Rockefeller Plaza, which is good. But it’s still a long line-up to skate around with lots of strangers.

My plan was to finish up the afternoon with It’s a Wonderful Life at the IFC Center but it was on too late. So I went to the Astoria instead and caught The Good German, by one of my favourite directors, Steven Soderbergh. It was awesome. At one point, my mouth was hanging open. Which pretty much sums up my first few days in the Big Apple, as some guy plays “Santa Claus is coming to town” on a sax and I get an energy vibe off the other tourists speaking 34 different languages, and forget that I’m even on vacation and that this is not my normal life.

gay new york

According to the young male hustler character in the Broadway play I just saw (ahem), gay is a just a word that rhymes with a lot of other words, and that's why it was used in so many old songs. There's a hilarious scene (many hilarious scenes, but in this one...) where his "lover" (barf) is lying next to him in bed wondering what he (the hustler) is thinking about. And what he's thinking about kind of goes like this: "hay, ray, spray..."

The play is called The Little Dog Laughed, and when I read my first review of it, on Nerve(http://www.nerve.com/regulars/lifeswork/douglascarterbeane/), it was titled "No, It's Not the Tom Cruise Story", which is ridiculously accurate.

I tried explaining what the play was about to a bartender at Simone's afterward, but it only became apparent that I shouldn't try to pitch anything, ever.

What I hated most during the play was the couple next to me. More specifically, the woman. At the same time, she was a great source of very quiet and silent laughter for me. This is what she wore (and please note, she was, ehhh, heavyset): a hot pink cropped t-shirt. with rhinstones spelling something I couldn't decipher because it would have required staring directly at her chest. and I tried. rhinestone hoop earrings. white capri pants. pink bobby socks. She must have been, oh, 44. She giggled at all the wrong parts (like, say, every time the gay guys kissed...). I was dying to ask her where in the US she was from.

I went to Simone's later, a bar here in the East Village where I'm staying, because I was so happy after the play, I wanted a drink. I never feel like going to bars by myself, and I don't associate joy with alcohol, but here I am in New York and I've just seen a hilarious play on Broadway, and it's Saturday night, and... I wanted to have a drink. I walked by a few bars on Avenue A, but chickened out of walking into each of them. Simone's, I figured, was familiar, therefore safe. I went there last year with Bubi and we liked it. It's all red and chandeliers, you know?

One of the barmen had his iPod hooked up to the sound system and he played Kate Bush and Massive Attack's CD Protection, the one with Karma Coma. I got a glass of red. Anyway, there was this person there, who I noticed hopping tables. I asked one of the guys behind the bar and he told me she was Simone (no relation to the bar's name), a transexual who's a physic and "really cool". No doubt. I wish she had read my hand. While I finished my drink, I could hear her talking to a table of people hidden from my view: "hellooo!", as in "wake up!" and then a few minutes later, again, "hellooo!", and again.

Tomorrow night is the Christmas dinner with Chilean ex-pats I've been invited to. I'm really looking forward to it. I have to say, though, the times I've felt best in this city are when I'm by myself, ready for anything.

And she's off!

That's it. This is my last post before I get on that overnight bus to my second favourite city to spend Christmas and New Year's. Like Leonard Cohen brilliantly says in the movie I'm Your Man, "New York's almost as good as Montreal". Heh.

In a fortunate turn of events for my wallet, my cousin's roommate has agreed that I stay over while said cousin (Carmen) is visiting Chile. On the other hand, my favourite hotel in NYC, Ye Olde Carlton Arms, has let me off the hook for my 10 day reservation and is still keeping my reservation for the first night, when I can't stay at Carmen's because she'll still be in town. This is also a good thing, because it means I get to see her before she leaves.

My friend Pepi has very graciously invited me to a dinner with friends and other Chilean ex-pats on Sunday, and probably to a New Year's Eve party. It sounds really good and I appreciate getting included in the fun. My original idea for going to New York was a sort of Holden Caulfield remake -minus the depression- because I didn't know if there would be anyone familiar there. So I was prepared to entertain myself, and in a way I still am. But having friends to party and hang out with makes it even sweeter.

The first time I felt that click with New York was on the bus ride in to Manhattan from the airport, one time that I had 5 hours to kill between my plane and the bus to Montreal. I realized I recognized the highway signs from an episode of Seinfeld. In town, everything was familiar, from Woody Allen movies, and jazz songs. Then I started seeing movies and tv shows and *recognizing* parts of the island. Now I know the layout of the streets, the names of the neighbourhoods, and I've even been to the Seinfeld diner. I love New York. It's my dream city. Not that I don't get the parts of it people dislike, like the unrelenting ambition of its citizens, or the overwhelming anonymity. It's just that, for me, as a constant tourist (or my preferred term: pilgrim), it's a fantasy. Part of this year's fantasy includes hanging out in town by myself, maybe skating at Rockefeller Center, visiting the Museum of Natural History, etc. What I really love about New York is that there's so much to do that my fantasy is never completed, and therefore I'm never disappointed. How can even MY expectations exceed the Big Apple's capacity to meet them?

Beginnings

Beginnings aren't always the best. I can remember so many beginnings of relationships that drove me to complain that people were insane to suggest that this anxiety was "the best part". But of course later the memory of the beginning is so juicy, when you already know how it turned out.

I went on my first date with adorable French boy on Wednesday (he asked me if I knew "feast", ie Feist). He brought his dog Daphné all the way from that mysterious land called The South Shore and we walked her around Park Lafontaine. Best idea for a first date ever. Just light, easygoing, sincere, a beautiful smile and a resonating feeling that all is OK. Isn't that the best?

I thought of beginnings last night at Spectrum, watching The Dears pull off a show that Mary quite rightly called the best of the year. The next best? The Dears, June 29, at Metropolis. I remembered how I got into this band in the first place. The beginning of it all, for me.

It was a tv commercial for wine, aimed at young drinkers. It was an animated ad that looked a lot like the Spanish artist Jordi Labanda's work, or those Lavalife posters in the metro. And the background music, as a cartoon couple floated in hot pink and orange air, was ...da-da da-da da... It was This is a Broadcast, from The Dears' 2000 CD End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story. Before I found that out, though, I spent a lot of time da-da'ing that bit of the song in my head and wondering what the hell it was and if I would ever find out. I often wish there was a sort of Google for hummed song clips, where you could say "I'm looking for a song that goes kind of like this... hmm, la la..." and the MusicGoogle would tell you, "Oh, that's the Postal Service, Such Great Heights."

So last night I took the napkin from my Coke and wrote down all the other memorable first times I heard bands that are now my favourites. "Not by email or msn", I added, because there's too many of those, sent over the Internet by other music-addicted friends who like to share. Those have been great, but too numerous to recount.

I was thinking more of times like when I walked into an indie record store in Santiago and, I don't know why, picked up Pulp's CD Freaks. I asked the clerk to let me hear it. He put it in a CD player and passed me the headphones, and I listened to Anorexic Beauty and I Want You and can still remember how great it felt when I said "I want to have this voice in my house. I'll take it." Years of total Pulp fanaticism followed.

When I had just moved back to Montreal, I read the Mirror to find out what was going on around here. There was a recommendation to go see a triple-bill headlined by Spoonbender at Sala Rossa. I think it was on a Monday and I went with Anna's friend of a friend, Casey. There weren't many other people there. One of the bands was We Are Wolves and I hated them. But the other band... was The Unicorns, and a love affair began. I was mesmerized by their pink outfits, Nick/Neil's shaggy hair, their silly/smart jokes about the main act's name, and the music. I called the Rant Line the next day and said I had just seen the cutest, sweetest, most adorable band EVER. They published it and I happen to know the Unicorns read it, because a long time after that, I asked and they remembered. Ah... give me a second to run through my many Unicorns memories (chaos at the Dark Room; the Nicks talking loops at SAT; discovering the crowds at La Tulipe; Jenn's message from Tazmania that it was all over) that I'll treasure forever now that they're defunct. How come all the other unicorns are dead?

Christmas Calendar

There may not be any snow on the ground, and this may clearly be one of the cloudiest Fall seasons ever, but Winter is looking up.

Saturday night I joined a gang at Charles’s place to eat spaghetti and watch NFB shorts like “The Sweater” (the story of a young boy in Quebec whose mother accidentally buys him a Maple Leaf hockey sweater from “Monsieur Eaton”). Then we piled into various cars and drove out to a West Island rink. We watched the Habs vs the Buffalo Sabers (who beat us in the shoot outs) on a giant screen tv and then I watched everyone else play a friendly game. I was the official photographer, which means I didn’t have to buy skates or a helmet or actually do any real work. Perfect.

Last night a group of nine of us went to the Notre Dame Basilica and listened to the very amazing Messiah concert by Haendel, as sung by Le Grand Choeur de Montreal. Our seats were the cheapest in the house, “nulle visibilité”. But as it turned out, we could actually see some of the choir and the soloists from where we were. Hallelujah!

The lineup of what’s coming is as follows: The Dears are playing this Thursday at the Spectrum. I’m all set to go after my Christmas reunion with the ladies from Events International, the company I used to work for. January 4 is the Emily Haines solo show. MSTRKRFT are playing something called I Love Neon on February 10, and, I don’t know if I should say this, but I’ve recently been notified that Arcade Fire will be playing 5 nights sometime this winter in a cozy location. I’m so there.

Oh yeah, and winter is my birthday too, yeeee!

Can I just say, that was the best office Christmas party ever?

It started with a game of Asshole in the office lunch room, making time before heading to the cocktail & dinner because I didn't feel like walking home first. It ended at what used to be Angel's, now called Rouge, with the CEO, his underage daughter, the other money dude from TO, assorted colleagues and tray after tray of equally assorted shots. Mr. CEO tried to get us past the line with Iraki cash. TO dude now has compromising photos of me belting out songs (I love to dance, I really get into it, what can I say) on the dancefloor. I took advantage of a Dad-free moment to teach the boss's daughter how to slap random people's asses on said dancefloor. She loved it, how could she not? And I met the cutest, sweetest, albeit South Shore-ian French quebecer. How's that? How was *your* xmas party?

4 years in ticket stubs

Belle & Sebastian (2/26/06), The Dears (unknown date at The Nest; 6/29/06), La Sagrada Familia (9/23/05), The Unicorns (10/1/04), Sam Roberts Band (11/2/06), Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (7/6/03), The Stills (5/13/06), The Thrills (1/10/04), Osheaga (9/2/06), The Flaming Lips (8/13/03), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (3/19/04), Pop 80 La Tulipe (7/16/05), The White Stripes (9/17/05), Juana Molina (10/11/06)

The Personal and The Pointless

You know what I really love? A nice looong conversation about nothing. In other words, a lot about me, some about you, and in between stuff about the world in general. Nothing too controversial; just The Personal and The Pointless.

I just spent a nice little while chewing my busy friend Sarah’s ear off on the phone. I’m glad. Busy people don’t get their ears chewed off often enough.

I was confessing to Sarah how it *still* bothers me to get a Feedreader update of Steve’s blog with a picture of Tom and his post-me girlfriend Lucy on it. Luckily… luckily, the picture is so obscure you can’t see anything but still. There is that CRUNCH in my stomach as soon as I even see his name. “Is this gonna be about the T word?” Sarah asked.

I’ve taken every measure I can to eliminate Tom from my very existence; something I’ve never done with anyone before. I blocked him on messenger, I blocked his email, I deleted all links and references to his blog… I even (regretfully) stopped reading a blog he followed me onto. Now I’ve (unfortunately) deleted Steve’s blog from my Feedreader. I feel immature and unright. This is silly. And it makes it really obvious to me that I am a tiny little person who can’t even get over a stupid breakup.

Yet Sarah says she’s still bothered by a breakup that happened two years ago. And she named some other people who still get upset over their over-6-months-ago breakups. “Really?” I asked incredulously. It made me feel sad –for them- but reassured –for me- to know that I’m not the only loony who gets punched in the stomach every time I am faced with the fact that this person continues to exist.

I KNOW, it’s silly. Immature. Unbecoming. What can I do? I guess I got over other stuff, eventually, therefore I’ll get over this. It’s miserable to be soft, but if you want me to be honest and not too modest, I’m proud that I can be soft these days. Hardcore never did me any favours.
****
Si algo hecho de menos de vivir momentos apestosos como éste en Chile es ese vuelco medio sentimental, medio “significativo”, que se le dan a este tipo de cosas allá. Cierto, muchas veces preferí dejar eso de lado e ir al grano sin tanto tralalá, pero a veces, bueno, me gustaría poder tener la oportunidad de rechazar los mimos. Qué gusto me daría, por ejemplo, darle tres mil vueltas con las expertas: Vero, Bárbara, Tere, y ultra maestra de la conversación Pointless, Mariana Ibáñez. Jeje.

Here Comes The Fear Again

...when you're no longer searching for beauty and love; just some kind of life with the edges taken off... -Pulp, The Fear

I've been thinking about fear a lot lately, which should not be confused with me actually being frightened. It's more like the fear you live with, or rather the one that keeps you from living. I think it's on my mind because of this book I've been reading (I'm a slow reader. I've said that before.). A woman's self psychoanalysis from the 70s: My Mother Myself. Yes, go ahead and laugh, I might as well be reading Our Bodies, Ourselves. But I love to listen to what people talk about in therapy, and this is so it.

Without going too much into what the book says, I can just say that it talks a lot about this deep-rooted, passed-down-over-generations fear that women carry (the book is about women and since I am one, I don't mind unapologetically leaving the men out of this). Basically, it's what keeps you tied to all the safe decisions, instead of the ones that truly grip you. The way I like to put it is, You know what you'd rather be doing, so why aren't you doing it?

Sometimes you don't even know what you'd rather be doing. Or, to be more precise, you've kept yourself so nicely distracted -with work, boys, television- that you don't even get the chance to sit with yourself for 5 lonely minutes a day to think about what it is that you'd rather be doing. Evasion. Blame it on the Fear.

When I started paying close attention to the lives of much older people I know, I realized that you don't necessarily, automatically, get a wake-up call. People can *actually* go through life without ever finding their... thing. No one will ever make you grow up. There is no magic birthday number. I find that immensely chilling, because being stagnant is probably one of my greatest fears. I'm, like, pathologically afraid of never growing up. (Ok, not really, it's for emphasis, right?) So what keeps us little, stuck, not going forward? Fear, dude. Fear. The secret fear that your parents won't approve; that people won't like you; that everyone will know that you tried and failed; that you'll be poor forever; that you'll never find anyone to love/you again; that you'll get fat; that it'll hurt forever.

As usual, it seems easier for me to find examples of this Fear overrunning other lives than my own. Or I could say I know exactly where it affects me most, but I distract myself nicely by worrying about other people, poor them.

***

PS Listen to CBC Radio 3, back online or via weekly podcast. It's great for hearing great Canadian bands you'd never heard about before. And then download them. And then when they come to town, go see them live and buy their CDs. Yay!

*Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/kwarren/

Sunlight in a Jar

I'm hooked on a feeling. I'm high on believing...

It's so good to be back home. I was in Nashville, working and travelling for eight straight days. That gives me moral permission to take today off, sleep in until it hurts to stay in bed, and then jump in the wickedly fresh sun while I do my errands and they take, like, 5 seconds each.

I took my picture for my new Medicare card. I walked in and took a number. 89. The number on the board was 88. Smiles for everyone, smiles for strangers!

I lost my debit card right before I left on this trip, so I went to the bank and got a nice new one. "I had just memorized the other one", I told the teller. "I know exactly how you feel", she said back. Smiles all around!

How long have I been waiting for sun? The good thing about flying in the day, even though I hate travel by plane, is that it's always sunny up there. Sometimes, when it's cloudy down here I try to remind myself of that.

My only counterbalance to this happy reunion is deciding to step out of some reading material I was really enjoying because *someone* blog-stalked me into it and I don't even want to be in the same virtual space. Phooey!

Beautiful Losers

Another drab, grey day. This isn’t the respite from a string of sunny days I used to enjoy. This is just mediocre hell. Man, the weather sucks.

I feel I should own a pair of those glasses that throws UV rays or something on you to enhance your mood. I would love that.

Last night was Axel’s “one night only” in Montreal. In the end, he’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, so I guess it’s not really one night only. But in spirit it is, I think.

How strange it must be to return to the place where you grew up, but haven’t been back to in 6 years, and haven’t lived in for seventeen. Everyone has changed; you’ve changed. And still, some things have got to remain the same.

Sitting in a booth at Blizzart’s last night, my historically old friend Hilary said all we were missing was a visit from Andrea Pahl. There was Jon Webb, our old neighbour and sometime friend of my brother’s, who probably hadn’t seen him in 20 years. I have been waiting for that particular encounter for a long time. I wish I could have seen his face, although apparently it was a bit anticlimactic, but that only reinforces my notions of what’s happened in all that time. Hilary was my friend, but my brother’s age, and he used to chase her around and try to kiss her. Years later, she commented she wished he would try again. It’s always great to see Hilly. Andrea Pahl, who was not there, was Axel’s best friend back in the day, and it’s true, it would have been spectacular to see that reunion.

I wonder, though, if anything has changed that much since the 1980s. Aren’t we still the same people who ran around backyards in the dark; who pointedly ignored each other’s rival gangs from 10 metres away; who sometimes coincided for an anxious game of truth or dare?

We’ll go back to Montreal West tonight for dinner at the Paradis, on Percival, middle block. We’ll sit in a house two down from where the Webb’s used to live, and across the street from Andrea Pahl’s old place. We’ll examine the spot where our own garage used to be and was torn down by later owners of the house. And across the street from that is Hilary’s old house. We won’t know the people who live in any of these houses anymore. But, honestly, I think nothing will have changed. Which is actually kind of too bad.

How Unusual!

So this is interesting. I got an email today from someone at the newspaper I used to work for, in Chile. I was asked if I could… interview Tom Jones in Toronto this weekend.

Seriously!

I had to decline. My brother is coming to Montreal this weekend. He lives in Chile, where he makes tv commercials and rides his bicycle around the volcanoes down there… or something like that. He came to Toronto this week on business and is taking the train to Montreal for one day only. I haven’t seen him in two years, so obviously I’m not going to miss his visit to go in the opposite direction.

Not for Tom Jones, and I can’t think of what circumstances would be so powerful that they’d take precedence in a case like this.

Ouch, have I been watching too much CSI or what? “Precedence” “Case” Take it to trace!

Ene Tiempo

Buf, ha pasado ene tiempo desde un post en castellano. Alguien me recomendó que escribiera en el idioma en que sueño, pero ¿qué haces cuando hasta tus sueños son bilingües? Leía mi diario de vida de 2000, uno verde muy tierno que me regaló la Bubi antes de mi viaje por dos meses a Montreal, a descompresionarme de mi agitada vida santiaguina. Bueno, en él hacía el comentario de que después de varias semanas en mi mundo anglófono, mi diario seguía siendo en español. Pero mi diario hoy, es en inglés. Será porque han pasado muchas más que varias semanas desde mi regreso.

En todo caso, siempre es bueno volver, y escribir para que me entiendan. O para que me entiendan mejor, no sé.

A ver, ¿qué he hecho? La semana pasada tuve uno de esos eventos jetsetteros que porque son de trabajo, no tienen ningún glamour. Volé a Washington por el día a una reunión con un nuevo cliente. Así: ida y vuelta en el mismo día. Al volver, tomé un taxi a mi casa, me cambié de pantalones, y me fui a reunirme con amigos para ver el recital de Sam Roberts, un músico idolatrado acá, que fue al colegio con gente que conozco (onda, Ignaciano). Estuvo bueno.

Esta semana vi dos películas con amigas: Marie Antoinette (me encantó; soy fan de la directora) y The Queen (menos entretenida, pero interesante igual).

En mi pega, trato de controlarme de comer demasiados dulces de Halloween. Así es, a estas alturas todavía quedan montones. Tenemos un especie de kiosko, que maneja otra jefa de proyecto, y cuyos fondos son para nuestras 'actividades sociales', tipo, ejem, bowling. Bueno, después de Halloween, ella trajo todas esas barras de chocolate y dulces en tamaño mini que le sobraron para vender en el kiosko. Ayer me dolía la guata de tanto mini Kit Kat. Me pregunto si eso incide directamente en el rollo que me sale encima de las panties. Ja.

En realidad, tengo puros viajes que contar, ¿no les parece latero? No, pero en serio, si son por pega. La próxima semana voy a Nashville, Tennesse, home of country music. Quién diría. Es una conferencia de profesores de idiomas extranjeros en Estados Unidos.

Estoy esperando la aprobación definitiva de mi jefa para reservar un pasaje a Nueva York para pasar la navidad en Rockefeller Center.

Ah! Esto es clave: viene mi hermano de visita este fin de semana. Estuvo en 2000, el mismo año que yo vine por 2 meses escapando de Lat. 33, Eduardo, el inexplicable odio de JMV, la partida del Pato, etc etc. Les recomiendo leer sus diarios de vida del pasado. El mío por lo menos está de lujo.

Mi anécdota favorita durante esa visita:
Llamé larga distancia a la casa de la Mariana y Pablo, muy tarde, y contestó una adormecida Mariana que me confundió con una polola de Pablo y me dijo "Marcia, basta de llamadas a las 3am!" y me colgó. jaja. Obviamente la llamé devuelta y me reí de ella. Hoy, Marcia es mamá, la Mariana vive en Barcelona y Pablo es papá por dos y está en México. Cuánto tiempo ha pasado desde el 2000, porque para mí fue ayer.

They Call It Murder

At the Halloween party at Jenny's I met a cute guy wearing an orange parka, and a bloody face. I think he was carrying an axe, too. I asked him if he was supposed to be some kind of murderer.

-No, I'm Tom Thomson, he said.

Thwack! It was like a name designed to kill me. Double whammy. I held back a totally irrelevant, acidic comment.

-Who's he? I asked instead
-He was one of the Group of Seven, replied this cute guy, who I later found out has a girlfriend, alas.
-Weren't they painters? I asked, trying to recall my visit to the National Gallery a couple of months ago.
-Yes, he said and held up a photocopy of a painting by Mr. Thomson.
-So you're a murdering painter?
-No, he laughed. Tom Thomson was killed.
-Oh, I smiled.

***
Y para los que piden a gritos un post en español... bueno... así no se piden las cosas!!! :P

The Lifelong Crush

The perfect relationship would be like the one I have with Montreal.

I feel almost constantly in love with the city. I enjoy the crisp nostalgia of Fall; the frigid romanticism of Winter; the desperation of Spring; and the aaahhh of Summer. Montreal is as much a familiar comfort as an ever-changing evolution. When I’m bored of the routine, there’s the bustle, and when I’m in a more introverted mood, there’s the reassuring history. Montreal is never demanding but always gently nudging with opportunities to see something new, meet someone different, go outside. We both enjoy music, art, discussion, social reunion, tagging, life without a car, urban living, less crime, tongue-in-cheek humour, lots of restaurants, no dress code, and heaps of style. Ok, on that last one, I think the city might have something on me.

The happiest moments in my relationship are when I come home from somewhere else. Planes are dull and suffocating until I’m flying in a little 737, trying to figure out what part of the landscape below is Laval and what part is home. Then, I suddenly love flying as much as when it was new to me. I’m excited to be back, every single time. I can’t wait to get in that cab, see what kind of driver I get this time, and follow the familiar old highways, with their graffiti and crumbling cement, through the same winding patterns I’ve been driven along forever, home.

Montreal loves me back. It shows me what I want, what enriches my life, such as the street art everywhere in my neighbourhood: the stickers and stencils and tags and inadvertent interventions of the cityspace that give my daily life meaning. It feeds me with maple syrup, breakfast with friends, bring your own wine, croissants, bagels, and ninety-nine cent pizza. It invites my favourite bands to play right around the corner, in a cozy little venue, for $12. For $635 a month, it provides me with an apartment with a balcony and view of Mount Royal, electricity and heating included. It brings people to my life, like the Brazilian lady who runs the bakery; or the Chilean woman who sells sandwiches and salads; and the local kids who work as cashiers at my local supermarket.

I’m in love with this city, and I don’t know anyone yet who could compete with such a love, desire, passion, affair, ever-changing cozy relationship that we have. Not even on a rainy day.


hint: try waiting for the whole song to download before playing. It downloads automatically. You'll see the gray bar fill in the player.

Octopus, duh

See more of my wonderful artistry from this past weekend in Vermont. Check your email for listings.

Junkie (originally written Oct 7)

I went to my first YulBlog meeting (is it a meeting?) last Wednesday, around the corner at Quincaillerie. I’d been toying with the idea for god knows how many months, maybe even a year. But who would I go with? And what would it be like? And what would the people be like? All scary questions. But somewhere in the depths of my superficial mind I figured here might be a group of people who I had something in common with. Blogging. Montreal. Ok! Anyway, I finally got up the nerve last week, and to go by myself, no less. It’s part of my new plan to enjoy my own life without a lifevest. So far, so good.

My greatest fear about the meeting, honestly, was walking into a trap of half a dozen geeks and no girls. I guess that’s why it worked in favour of going that the place is so close to my home. I could just exit lickety-split. I thought about setting my cell phone alarm, which rings like a phone, but that seems tooooo petrified. Come on, how bad could it be? I was feeling good, confident, let’s do it.

Honestly, it went even better than I expected. The people (men AND women) were friendly, and very open. It was easy to talk to anyone, and the whole vibe was very casual and buena onda. (jeje, así que hacerlo con los gringos : meterles palabras en castellano para que cachen lo que es cool). When I left, I was really glad I went.

Right before I was going to leave, a guy sat down next to me and we started talking. He said he doesn’t write a blog, but he reads a lot of them. And he asked me *why* I do it. At first, I was saying, well, that’s a complicated answer, but then I realized: it’s because I’m a junkie. I am and always have been a total communication addict. I *get it* when people call Blackberries “crackberries”.

I’m the only person I know who likes having a cell phone because it means I’m available at all times. If I’m busy doing something at home and the msn is beeping at me, I feel guilty for not focusing entirely on those micro-conversations, and I’ll run back and forth from whatever I’m doing to the computer just to stay on top of it. On the other hand, it really bugs me when people don’t reply to emails or phone calls or instant-messages. Like, it *really* bugs me. Or those people who never answer their phones.

My friend Gina, who I met at a writers workshop, said maybe I wasn’t writing because I’m blogging. But I’ve had a diary since I was six and I haven’t stopped keeping it just because I email, text message, and blog. Believe me, there is like an endless waterfall of words in my mind. Only brain trauma could stop it. Anyway, I hope you realize that while I’ve been writing this, I’ve been maintaining an msn conversation, choosing songs, and roasting some veggies for lunch! Hit me!

Here She Comes

I don't think I should ever get married. OTHER people's weddings make me nervous, imagine how bad I'd get if I had to go through my own. I would have to choose between a bottle of "muscle relaxants" or a broken champagne flute through someone's neck. Yeeeesh!

This is the weekend to break into my apartment and vandalize it, if that's what you were thinking of doing, because I'm off to beautiful Burlington, Vermont, to enjoy Emily's (of the "Emily" line of clothes my friends know well) wedding to Peter. I've never met Peter and I haven't seen most of Emily's friends since elementary school. Back then, when I was still part of a nuclear family and Emily still lived in the upstate NY town of Potsdam, we would mail each other Sweet Valley High books. To me, Emily's American life was like looking into someone's living room from the outside. Her mom, Lya, kept the house clean and cozy; there was MTV and there were magazines like Seventeen and YM to flip through; Emily actually bothered doing girl things like using a hair curler; her high school was a *public* *American* *high school* *with no uniforms*.

It's funny how enviable other lives can be when you don't actually have to live them. Hilary, who studied cuisine (that's cooking, in French) revealed to me how exotic she found our kitchen ingredients: the olive oil. Rebecca was an addict of the sliced bread straight-out-of-the-bag I used to eat freely while her parents kept her on endless diets. I have always been a sucker for a stay at home mom and carpeted hallways free of computer parts lying around.

The only thing I'm not really envious of -as much as I love to plan- is a wedding. I could break out into hives. And cry! I would probably cry more than a scared kid in front of Santa Claus.

Anyway, why am I going on about this, it's not my wedding, it's Emily's. And I'm going to meet my aunt and cousin from Chile, who I haven't seen in aaages! I had a little travel anxiety dreaming last night (forgetting things, etc) so I'd better get packing. The keys aren't under the mat.

Look what I learned how to do!

You were trying to throw your arms around the world

Allow me a moment of nostalgia. It's the early 90s and if just that doesn't mean anything to you, then I have nothing more to say. Me, as we say in Québec, I was in my late teens.

I fell in love for the first time, and for the first time of many I thought that was it, I had gone as high as I could go. Crazy kid. It's 15 years later and I wonder how much has changed.

I've been reminded of a couple of albums from back then, in the days when I was oscillating between cassettes and CDs, that have brought that all back. They're both by U2. They are Achtung Baby and Zooropa. Everyone knows those records changed everything for U2. But, right, they also changed everything for me. And here I am. I wonder if anything has changed so much after that. Or if it ever will. I have a feeling it won't, but then, I know nothing.

See if this makes you feel anything:

You're dangerous cuz you're honest
You're dangerous cuz you don't know what you want
Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot
for any spirit to haunt
hey hey sha la la la, hey hey
You're an accident waiting to happen
You're a piece of glass left there on the beach
Well you tell me things I know you're not supposed to
Then you leave me just out of reach
hey hey sha la la la, hey hey cha la la
Who's gonna ride your wild horses
Who's gonna drown in your blue sea
Who's gonna ride your wild horses
Who's gonna fall at the foot of thee
Well you stole it cuz I needed the cash
And you killed it cuz I wanted revenge
Well you lied to me cuz I asked you to
Baby... can we still be friends?

I think I'll let these soundtracks play, and remind me only of the great feeling of "in love" for the very first time. I'm thankful for a)having been there and b)never having to be there again. Love is blindness, I don't want to see, won't you wrap the night around me... a little death without mourning, no call and no warning, baby a dangerous idea that almost makes sense.

I wonder what other music overwhelms a moment of life so much that it becomes a true soundtrack. I mean, in the sense that when you hear it again (and these are albums, not just songs) you are there again. Like they say on the news: Not for a day, not for a moment, not for an hour... in the whole period of time when you were... what?

the sun was like a spotlight

Like that Seinfeld episode and too many british music videos, I think I'll start backwards, except that at the end of my story, nothing exciting will happen. But I think you might enjoy it anyway.

After visiting the McCord Museum with my dad, Button met me at Aux Deux Maries after my scrumptious lunch of guacamole, tomato and grilled cheese sandwich and we went for a walk around the neighbourhood. I bought the Stars CD I had really bought yesterday at Fox Troc (but they hadn't been able to find the CD so they called me back when they found it). I showed her the calendar I bought Sarah for her birthday (Sarah: "are you going to buy me another book about Jews?" Me: "it wasn't about Jews, it was *by* a Jew. It might also have been about Jews." Reality: it was a Leonard Cohen book about Jewish people in Montreal and it ws her present last year.) The calendar is called the B Word and has those now classic 50s style advertisement women with funny lines next to them like "you call me a bitch like it's a bad thing".

For Sarah's birthday a group of ten of us met at Le Petit Italien on Bernard. I had the most wonderful mushroom risotto. They even made it with vegetable broth especially for me. Sweet. Unfortunately, they were unable to prepare an actual Lemon Drop martini so I drank very sour vodka for an appetizer. Meh.

After dinner we headed to Laurier, to Baldwin Barmacie (I guess Barmacy in English). The dating pool, in my analysis, was: younger than me; had money; good-looking; too mainstream to be cool. This whole "everyone is younger than me" thing is really getting on my nerves.

Friday night was supposed to be TV on the Radio but the show was sold out and no way was I going to pay $50 to a scalper for a ticket. I dropped Willow and Mai at the door with their friend Benoit and walked home. Bought some Spring flower bulbs on the way, which I planted just now. They'd better work!

Willow's friend Mai had been to possibly my favourite place on planet Earth: San Pedro de Atacama. Hilariously, she was there during a rain storm. I should explain that the Atacama is the driest desert on Earth. It NEVER rains. It so NEVER rains that people don't build roofs on their houses. She said the adobe walls of her hotel were melting in the downpour. Cracked me up. Willow made us food and told me I was a patron of the arts.

And then I'm walking home with Brian from the Brazilian Girls show at La Tulipe, where we stood mesmerized by Sabrina's shiny seethrough costume. It's whipping cold and dark and time to go to bed, but the memory of Sabrina keeps us cozy and happy.

*I tried to upload a great picture of Brazilian Girls from Osheaga but life is unfair.

The Pick-Up Artist

What goes on in the mind of the cab driver pick-up artist? I’m sure most girls have experienced an attempted pick-up by a taxi driver. I mean, it’s happened to me on 2 continents, many times. I wonder: does it ever work for them? Do girls date the men who drive them home?

Ok, I don’t want to go all Carrie Bradshaw. Enough with the pondering.

Last night I got my dose of taxi ego boost from … I can’t remember his name but he asked me mine twice.

- Isabel! Que bella, bella! J’adore les femmes québécoises! Vous êtes belle!

He was Italian. When I told him the address of where I was going, he asked me how I wanted to get there. If I knew, I’d be happy with the question, but since I didn’t, it was a bit annoying to get the feeling he didn’t know where he was going. Without me saying anything, he told me, (in French), “I always use a client’s route. I don’t use my own, I don’t think, je n’utilise pas mon cerveau”. I think he meant it as a form of service. You’re the boss. I asked how that worked with tourists. “I don’t pick up tourists.”

- Comment savez vous qu’ils sont des touristes?
- Because most the time they speak only English and I don’t speak English. I only speak French and my mother tongue. I’m Italian [blahblahblah, story of his life in a nutshell].

He went on to tell me (loudly and while gesticulating as wildly as you’d expect a bone fide Italian to) that he hopes Quebec stays French forever, and that English is a lousy language. It’s difficult for him to learn it, because it’s not Latin-based, but maybe if he’d moved to Toronto he’d have learned English, but since he didn’t, he learned French and he loves it and he loves Quebec, and vous êtes bella!!!

I got the usual cab pick-up speech about his qualifications as a future life partner, as Sarah would say. He’s 33, he’s single, he’s had bad luck in love, he dated two girls, one was a Quebecer, the other was an Italian; it didn’t work out. He’s bilingual (got that), caring and expressive. He’s a good catch, he fell short of adding. Was I single? No, I lied.

I hate telling drivers my relationship status. They seem to take it as permission to say whatever they want about my life, my future, and how they’d fit into it nicely. Bleh. The last time this happened to me, I was being driven home from the airport. How much information did that guy think I was going to provide to a stranger who now knows where I live and assorted other information given during the ride (what I do for a living, where I was traveling, and a few opinions if I’m feeling extroverted).

Mr. French-loving-Italian dropped me off in front of Willow’s, asked me my name a second time, repeated how bella!! I was and kissed my hand for a long second. Good luck and good night.

Mademoiselle Molina

El miércoles fui a ver un recital de Juana Molina. Es la segunda vez que la veo en vivo. La primera fue en Ottawa, durante un festival supuestamente de blues, pero en realidad surtido de mucho pop. Y ahí estaba la mademoiselle Molina, y yo la cachaba sólo porque Luis me mandó el mp3 de una canción llamada Isabel. Convencí fácilmente a mi amiga Jen y ese recital, sentadas en el pasto, en verano, fue tan bueno que Jen se compró el disco Tres Cosas. Después me lo copió y me lo regaló para mi cumpleaños.

Bueno, este miércoles recién pasado Juana volvió a Montreal y la vimos en la Sala Rossa, que es un centro cultural español pero naaaaada que ver con el de Providencia. Mucho más humilde. Quizás más sincero, y no sé si más o menos español porque no conozco España ni los españoles.

Juana, con el pelo cortado en línea recta hasta los hombros, habló en francés casi todo el rato. Muy bueno su acento. Mucho más refinado que el típico acento quebecois. Incluso cantó una en francés. El resto, como saben, en español, y el público totalmente motivado. Tanto así que cuando ella lo pidió, todos nos levantamos y corrimos las sillas sobre las que estábamos sentados y quedamos de pie, para disfrutar mejor. Todo porque ella, ceño fruncido y todo, tiene mucho encanto.

***
Anoche fui a ver Brazilian Girls al teatro La Tulipe. Alguien me contó que habían tocado en Chile. Que quizás la cantante, Sabrina, es chilena. Lo dudo. No conozco muchas chilenas con un cuerpo así: alta, esbelta... No. Bueno, después les cuento más sobre ese recital.

just so you know, it still happens, and it happens here

UN report reveals 'shocking' levels of violence against children (from cbc.ca)

Violence at home, school and care facilities is a part of daily life for hundreds of millions of children around the world, a United Nations report released Thursday suggests.

"We knew children were victims of violence, but even so it was very surprising and shocking that it was so widespread," said Mehr Khan Williams, the UN Deputy High Commissioner for Human Rights.

"It cuts across cultures, income levels, education levels. No country is immune from it."

The four-year study that encompassed 130 countries was completed by Paulo Pinheiro, an independent expert appointed by UN Secretary General Kofi Annan.

It concludes the majority of violent acts experienced by children take place in areas where they should feel most safe, such as at home and school, or in state care.

While the report notes violence in the home usually doesn't leave serious or permanent physical injuries, it is most often accompanied by psychological violence, including threats, belittling, isolation and rejection."Violence against children in the family may frequently take place in the context of discipline and takes the form of physical, cruel or humiliating punishment," said the report.

"Harsh treatment and punishment in the family are common in both industrialized and developing countries."

Corporal punishment common

Mali Nilsson, Save the Children's global advisor on child protection, said corporal punishment is one of the most common forms of violence against children.

"In most regions, it is looked upon as justifiable and socially accepted," she said.

Millions of children are exposed to sexual violence each year, says the report.

"As many as 150 million girls and 73 million boys worldwide are subject to sexual violence each year, usually by someone in their family circle," said the report.

A 2002 Canadian study showed children made up 23 per cent of the population, but accounted for 61 per cent of sexual assault victims.

Hundreds of millions of children witness domestic violence each year, according to the report. Estimates range as high as 275 million, including as many as 362,000 in Canada.

Most are exposed to fights between parents or a mother and her partner, it says.

Khan Williams said violence in the home is "a private space that's hard to throw light on."

Clever Title With the Word Pop In It

Impossible to ignore. Last night, walking from FilmPop at the Portuguese Association on St. Urbain to see if we could still get into Holy Fuck and Besnard Lakes (no), you could really see what Pop Montreal is all about. St. Laurent was covered in youth, roaming the venues, hanging around outside the sold out shows, riding from one place to another with just enough time to grab a samosa on the way.

I saw the most hilarious movie about a Posthumous Pickle Party at FilmPop. Some very enthusiastic guys decided to make a movie about eating pickles from the last vat left over by Simcha, deceased owner of Simcha's Fruit & Vegetable Market on St. Laurent and ... I'm drawing a blank, is it Napoleon? Anyway, they go in there, talk to people who knew Simcha (turns out he was "so old school, he hated you"), get a food critic, and have funny rants about the whole thing. My favourite part is when they ask his wife (in a clip from a 1997 movie) how long they've been married... you just have got to see her non-answer. Oh, and some people in far off countries will recall a non-stop-talking American student who was living here last year, Adam. He shows up in the movie! The ironic thing is he doesn't talk at all in it, haha. Ah...

That movie was well worth my $6 and a one-hour wait for the whole thing to start properly. The director did a very commendable job of keeping us entertained with a random Q&A session (sample question "why doesn't he love me?") and a bag of cookies passed around. Mr. Pacino/Serpico, aka Nick from Korova was there, and I was going to ask him WTF is the matter with Kojak (aka Jose, the hideous owner I described earlier) but I left and forgot about it.

In Pop Gossip: An unnamed samosa eater told me about an email the foulmouthed-circus-ringmaster front man for Friendly Rich and the Lollipop People sent Dan Seligman, the guy who basically runs this festival. It was about how horrible a venue BarFly is (the sound was preposterously bad on Friday), respecting artists and whatnot. My source said he'd forward it to me - Can't wait!

Without a show to go to, Ian and I waddled back to Brian's for Goldshlager and graphic images of hockey players and their jugular vein. And BUT OF COURSE we ended up at a nicely vacated Korova (only for kids like us who couldn't get into see any bands elsewhere). My newest tactic: buy nothing! And drink all their free water! The music was a lot "whiter" than usual but what the hey, Laura, Ian, Courtney the Girl, Brian and I danced it up anyway. I can't remember if Brian took off his shirt this time.

I'm missing the movie Mutual Appreciation right now because I cannot leave my apartment in my combo pyjamas/what-I-wore-last-night. It's a beautiful day but Pop Montreal requires more energy than I've got. I don't think I'll make it to Reg-ee-na Reg-eye-na Spektor tonight. Gotta rest up for Thanksgiving celebrations with diverse foster families tonight and tomorrow. The laundry stays undone...

your ex-lover is dead * stars

God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across pont champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...

This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin

It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...

Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say

I'm not sorry there's nothing to say...

Julie's Birthday Shabam

Ms. Julie D. turned 30 a little while ago. Here are a couple of pictures from the second part of the event: 80s Night at La Tulipe! The first part was dinner at Les Saveurs on Laurier, and all I have to say about that is that it took the staff an hour to get our bills ready. That's what happened when you offer poor service: a perfectly good meal gets foul reviews.

Domesticated

I certainly didn't get it from my mother. Her intellectual and spiritual interests are very far from the mundane reality of keeping house. But ever since I was a little girl, I found some sort of comfort in domestic activity. I liked to do the family laundry, sorting clothes by colour AND fabric, figuring out which water temperature would work best. I liked learning how to iron; what part of the shirt gets pressed first so that the end result is as creaseless as possible. I loved to cook, spaghetti and experimental chocolate cakes. If I had been born in another time, I would have been the perfect domestic goddess.

Even though my mother -and principal female role model- was a strong force pushing for economic and intellectual independence, I really don't think my own contrary interests were meant as a backlash. It was just the way you'd rather your room be pink instead of white. Just a matter of preference.

I realize there's a lot of stigma attached to domestic affairs. You're not *supposed* to like it, it's *supposed* to be enslaving. Well, I watched one woman feel authentically enslaved by it, and for some reason it didn't affect me like that. Like I said, there seemed to be some comfort in it. There still is.

I read somewhere that when people start discreetly dusting crumbs from the table, it's a sign that they aren't too happy with the conversation and want to lead it elsewhere. I believe that my affair with the domestic is related to this somehow. Just like Campbell Scott's character in the movie Singles, when he's broken up and trying to pretend he's ok, he says "work is the only thing I have completely control over". Nevermind that the walls of his cubicle come crashing down 2 seconds later. It's the thought that counts.

Some people go to the gym; I go to the supermarket. Forget the results. As long as I can carry a load of laundry, clutch a J-cloth, or stand in front of the oven long enough to cook a risotto, I have some sort of authority over my own life, I can *make* things ok. And I make a fine risotto too.

Twister part II

Oh yeah, and last night at Mary & Mary's Twister cocktail party, an astounding number of men I've never met before told me they surely knew me from somewhere. Bizarre. But the strangest of all was one that went away muttering, "maybe from rugby." ?????

Anyway, I'm actually off to watch Nick's rugby game over at Laurier park. Maybe I'll run into the guy.

boycott Korova

Did I ever think I would say that? Korova, which I loved from the first moment I wandered in and landed in a crowd of kids jumping to Franz Ferdinand. Where I've pretty much spent the last two years, since back when Amy was trying bartending there, and we weren't ejected at 3am.

Oh, countless foosball tournaments, the time I won at pool, using the window to spy on the street below... just a ton of personal memories.

But, honestly, who is that bald loser? Last night there was, get this, a *line up* to get in. And next to the line-up was a constant stream of exodus, with each person telling us that the place was nowhere near crowded and they didn't understand the line. What made me furious though was this guy at the door yelling at people: "can't you even follow basic instructions?" But the very same "smart" guy would yell down "line up over here"... and not say "to the right, to the left, in the center". Where the hell is "over here", dude, we can't even see you from down here, but we still get to enjoy your insults. Oh, yes, I'm dying to go into your bar.

Worse, worse, worse: after choosing the foosball and drinks next door for a while, we got a call from inside Korova to go back. No more line. Well, at the end of the night, Mr. I Own This Place So I Am Entitled To Be A Skank is being equally rude to the Djs, who as usual are the principal point of going to Korova in the first place. I hope they quit.

And I hope he sits on a hot plate.

Twister

Something I realized this week (and you'll see how ironic this is in a sec) is how quickly I forget things. Say I'll have this brilliant, supposedly life-changing realization. Well, reading my 2004 diary entries the other day, I discovered that two years ago I was experiencing practically the very same "life-changing" "realizations", I've just forgotten all about them in the meantime! In fact, if I remember correctly, I forgot them about two seconds after thinking of them; at the very instant some goodlooking, nice boy walked into the scene. Damn!

Dr. Phil says (I will start sentences like this unapologetically) that the past is the best predictor of future behaviour. Does that mean that at age 31 I'm locked in whatever pattern I've been playing out since god knows when? And even this train of thought I'm having right now has been played out in my mind before, who knows how many times? And when I say "who knows" don't ask me: my mind is swiss cheese.

So what should I do? Dr. Phil says (uh-huh) that the only thing that can change the pattern of past behaviour is some seriously dramatic event. He doesn't usually give examples when he says this, so I'm not sure if going "oh my god! look what i'm doing, i'm repeating things!" constitutes a dramatic event. Feels dramatic, but is probably low on the global scale of drama. I wonder, does this mean I should be *more* dramatic? Relax, that was a joke.

For now I've taken the analytical observer pose. That means, I'm sort of stalking myself. Watching and waiting. I take mental notes and then I tell myself all about them, in lengthy conversations over hot cocoa and biscuits. We chatter all night, me and myself. Sometimes we don't see eye to eye, but in the end, we're good pals. I wonder what will happen, though, as soon as some goodlooking, nice boy walks in the room mid-chatter.

Kickball is like Life

Well, another game of kickball with the girls & boys. In case you haven't noticed, kickball (soccer-baseball where I come from - oh wait, that's Montreal) is a big thing these days. Like this year's Ultimate, only cooler because we care less. Everyone knows coolness is inversely related to your level of ernestness. Which makes me terribly un-cool, but anyway...

There are leagues of kickball players, and it was the sport du jour this summer for 20 & 30 somethings, and since I'm a 30something who hangs out with 20somethings, it works out nicely.

I kind of wasn't feeling it today though. Possibly related to being 30something among 20somethings, what do I know. But, *as in life*, I sucked it up and played. Not my best game, I admit. I'm an usually enthusiastic kickball player (unsual since I was kicked out of softball when I was 10 for "not hustling enough" and I'm an astoundly unathletic person) but not tonight. Still, *as in life*, it was worth it to stick it out. Good for the health, you know?

I saw a man getting arrested on my way to the game. The cops were telling him to put his arms out on the chainlink fence and he was, like, "whoa, calm down", as though they were at a picnic, and the cops had just given him another beer. Geez.

I also saw a man's penis today, which should not be such a special occasion but it was. I was walking along Napoleon and arrived at Laval. In front of me was an apartment's window and something on the other side caught my attention. I was absent-mindedly staring as I crossed the street toward it when I suddenly realized... is that a...? I think it is! First I thought it was a plastic penis, a toy. But as I came closer, I saw that it was a real penis, attached to a real man. The guy was obviously an exhibitionist: he was standing by the window, facing out, with the blinds drawn to his waist level, wearing a t-shirt and nothing else (maybe socks, I couldn't see that far down). And there was his manhood, lettin' it all hang out in the fall afternoon sun, just standing there. It was quite a nice one too, but I had to laugh. The whole situation was so bizarre.

My first exhibitionist and I'm 31 and three-quarters.

The Double

I'm addicted to quickening my breath, to the verge of fainting or wanting to throw up, which I don't. I don't know why, and I won't admit how I do it, but I do.

I'll put it like this: when I was young, and we lived in tranquil Montreal West, I would leave our house in the middle of the night just to walk around the block and be outside in the dark, when there was no one else there. As a grown-up, in the city, this sounds normal. But in MoWest, there really is no one on the street at night that should be there. Another thing I liked to do was lie in the middle of my street, because I knew no cars were coming but they *could* be. I know it all sounds lame now, but it was thrilling, and that's what I'm talking about. Making a contemporary, white, comfortably well-off, sometimes traumatic, but socially well adapted life exhilarating, if only in my imagination.

And then I spend the other half of my time trying not to be like this at all, because I actually despise it. It's like those kids who feel compelled to eat crap on a dare. Of course it's disgusting, but the worst part isn't the crap, it's your stupid addiction to doing it. The part you can't control.

Do you ask people questions you don't want to hear the answer to? Have you read someone else's email? Do you eavesdrop on people talking about your loved ones? Do you read the gruesome news that haunts you? Did you ever ask a kid to beat you up? Do you sabotage? And if so, can you tell me why?

Lectura Obligada

Parece que pasa más y más tiempo entre posts en castellano... Y qué raro, siendo que una parte importante de mí se expresa mucho mejor en este idioma, que díficilmente llamaría materno (aunque técnicamente, si pensamos que mi madre me lo enseñó...anyway).

Partiendo por lo banal, empezó el otoño acá. Hoy en la mañana me puse guantes para ir al trabajo. ¿Cómo se lo imaginan? Hacía poquísimo más de 10 grados y me resisto a la irracionalidad de creer que si una se hace la loca con el frío, el frío no existe. Así que asumo que la otra vez que hicieron 10 grados me *dio* frío en las manos, y me pongo los guantes, aunque sea horrible admitir que estamos ya en época de guantes.

Luis me ha mantenido al tanto de lo que para él parece ser una competencia entre las nuevas novelas de nuestros amigos y conocidos: Pancho Ortega, Ernesto Ayala y Alvaro Bisama. Según Luis la mejor es... bueno, quizás no deba contar su opinión. jeje. En todo caso, para que sepan que he leído entrevistas y críticas a las tres. Ayer leí una entrevista a Ernesto en Revista de Libros, que me gustó bastante. Como siempre, Ernesto tan humano por escrito, jaja. Perdonen, es una maldad mía haberle dicho una vez a EA que era más humano por escrito que en persona. La entrevista me gustó porque encuentro que él queda bien, y cae bien, piola como es, y sobre todo porque aunque no he escrito en no voy a decir cuánto, me identifico con cómo él describe el proceso. Saber de lo que pasa en Santiago con la publicación de estas novelas me hace extrañamente agradecida de que no me haya metido nunca en ese rollo. Creo que la manera correcta de publicar un libro es que nadie sepa quien eres hasta que no te lean. Así, si no les gusta, se olvidan de ti y punto.

Yo estoy leyendo King Rat, del autor de Shogun. Me compré todos sus libros menos uno cuando estuve en Cape Cod con mi mamá en agosto. Rayé tanto con Shogun que quiero leerlos todos para ver si son tan buenos como ése. Ojalá que sí. Es una tremenda decepción para mí cuando me encuentro leyendo un libro que me carga. En el colegio, un libro así lo hubiera dejado de lado, sin terminar. De hecho, nunca leí el último capítulo de Cien Años de Soledad porque ahí es donde iba cuando fue la prueba del libro y simplemente no tenía más sentido para mí terminarlo. Piensen lo que quieran de mí, pero así es. Cuando no tengo paciencia, no le pido disculpas a nadie. Ahora, en cambio, me mamo unos libros que voy pelando mientras los leo. Igual que como veo tele: enojada en mi cabeza, "pero cómo! eso no tiene sentido! grrr!" jaja. Me pasó con Memorias de una Geisha (cometi el error de leerlo después de Shogun) y con The Virgin's Lover, novela histórica acerca de la reina Isabel I. Odio perder mi tiempo, sobre todo que sé que no tendré jamás suficiente tiempo en mi vida para leer todo lo que quiero (aló, Jonathan Franzen lleva 2 publicados que no he visto, y todavía tengo una colección de James Clavell por delante!). Pero a la vez, me sentiría muy chanta hablando mal de un libro si no tratara de leerlo completo al menos.

Axelito

Who does this guy think he is?

random events for posterity

* I ran into Patrick Watson twice yesterday. And now he's on the cover of some magazine I just saw at Concordia. I believe this to be a sign that it'll rain frogs tomorrow.

* Have you *seen* the lineup of live music acts for this Fall? I just sent out an email to some friends to start planning. Courtney's upset I left out his Barfly Pop Montreal show but, dude, I don't know when it is!

* Sarah and I just saw a film called "Once A Nazi...". That's what I was doing at Concordia. I hate being in that university, it's so studenty I want to studenty-puke. I was never meant to get an education. Anyway, I went for "the social outing" aspect of it. Sarah went for the movie. It was interesting, but I had to walk out before hearing people talk about holocaust denial and random abuse of the audience microphone. I hate public displays of opinion.

* That's it. I'm pretty much out of random things to say tonight. I will spare you the pain of having to read about my plants once again. You're welcome.

I heard you have amazing power in your pantaloons!

I just made up an, ehem, wicked concept. Recent and disturbing events (no, not that, the other one. No, wait, what are you thinking? Not that one at all! Ugh, ask me.) have prompted me to take up the old journey of self-discovery and self-knowledge again.

While I was looking for where to begin, I ran into my father’s sister on msn and talking to her made this light bulb come on: An Emotional History. Just like genealogy, or your family’s history of disease, but related to where you come from… emotionally. I think it’s cool, don’t you?

I started by asking my aunt and my dad (a perma citizen of msn) about my grandfather, and how he was with them. Most illuminating. I also learned a bit about my great-grandfather, Julian’s behaviour, and that was eye-opening as well. I’m particularly interested in my father’s side of the family for this part of the experiment. But I think my mother’s side will also be very interesting once I’m more advanced.

This is all pretty exciting to me, because learning is a unique way to make a crappy situation good. I had a cheesy Aquarianism ready for this post, but I think I’ll keep it to myself for now.

PS Feel free to use my concept, but please remember the credit! ;)

It's so easy

Rent- Pet Shop Boys

You dress me up, I'm your puppet
You buy me things, I love it
You bring me food, I need it
You give me love, I feed it

And look at the two of us in sympathy
With everything we see
I never want anything, it's easy
You buy whatever I need

But look at my hopes, look at my dreams
The currency we've spent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent

You phone me in the evening on hearsay
And bought me caviar
You took me to a restaurant off Broadway
To tell me who you are

We never-ever argue, we never calculate
The currency we've spent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent
I love you, you pay my rent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent

I'm your puppet
I love it

And look at the two of us in sympathy
And sometimes ecstasy
Words mean so little, and money less
When you're lying next to me

But look at my hopes, look at my dreams
The currency we've spent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent
I love you, you pay my rent
Ooh, I love you, you pay my rent

Look at my hopes, look at my dreams
The currency we've spent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent
I love you, you pay my rent

Look at my hopes, look at my dreams
The currency we've spent
I love you, oh, you pay my rent
I love you, you pay my rent
I love you, you pay my rent (It's easy, it's so easy)
You pay my rent (It's easy, it's so easy)
You pay my rent (It's easy, it's so easy)
I love you (It's easy, it's so easy)

things that make me very happy these days

* sitting on my balcony at night, with my feet on the rail, enjoying the silence

* licking the mixing bowl clean

* meeting my friends, and talking to the ones too far away to meet

* spending all morning cleaning my apartment and not having any other obligations

* transplating my garden indoors for the season

* listening to The Arcade Fire

* watching Grey's Anatomy

* lying on my bed, not doing *anything* and not having anything *to* do.

Rage Against The "Support Centre"

This is the letter I just hand-wrote to the idiots at Scotiabank's national Credit Solutions Support Centre after they sent me the second letter denying me a credit card (ps, I already got one from my branch).

Mr. Frank Moffatt
Assistant [I toyed with idea of abbreviating that "Ass"] General Manager
Credit Solutions Support Centre

Dear Mr. Moffatt,

In all honesty, I find your so-called Credit Solutions Support Centre a gathering of fools. That's right: fools.

I am enclosing two letters I received, I assume in response to my mailed-in application for a new Scotia Value Visa after having a join Scotia Value Visa account for the past 3 years.

As you can see in the first letter, dated September 5, my name is misspelled and you claim I have "minimal/no credit history". In the second letter, dated September 8, you are even more vague and claim simply that my application "does not meet your credit criteria at this time".

I'd like you to know, Mr. Moffatt, that a) I have possessed and made unquestionably responsible use of a Scotia Value Visa since 2003 and that b) I have already obtained a new Scotia Value Visa directly from my branch (not idiots) *because* when I phoned the national Scotiabank call centre I was told that there was *no application* on record in my name.

So I do not thank you for your poor services rendered, and I advise you that whenever possible in the future I will deal only with my branch. You have them to thank that I do not switch banks entirely and suggest the same to all my friends.

Goodbye,
Isabel Brinck

I lived among the Goths

So of all the mixed up adjectives people have used to describe the Dawson killer, we'll stick with Goth ok? Not just because that's what it looks like to me -kind of- on his web pagebut also because it's the same website where that 12 year who killed her parents met her boyfriend and accomplice on and *they* were widely described as Goths so... eh? makes sense.

I spent a rather hefty chunk of the 90s three stories underground, in a 1000-person capacity danceclub that was once a movie theatre. It was called Blondie, and I've mentioned it in passing before. Blondie was dark, rank, cheap, and located in the poorer old city core of Santiago. It was where you went to avoid judgement. Anyway, that's the way I saw it because no matter what you were like, you couldn't possibly be the worst looking person in there. I loved that place.

Like I said, I spent a loooot of time there. I became friends with the party promoter, the owner, the bouncers, with the barmen, with the girl who sold the tickets, not to mention with other partygoers. Mostly, we just ordered cheap drinks and sat on the steps that led to the dancefloor, or in dark spaces near the walls, until we were ready to dance and then we just let her go until closing at 5 or 6am, as deep into the club as possible. It was occasionally visited by rich kids from waaay uptown who discovered it as they entered university and opened their worlds a bit. Those kids stood out like a pimple in the hazy sea of black that were the regulars. And they danced -safely- nearer to the bar, and the stairs leading back up 3 stories to the outside world. If you knew what's what about Blondie, you wouldn't be caught dead there. In a place built to be a refuge, tolerant and accepting, the only way to be really uncool was to, I don't know, wear white sneakers.

Anyway, Blondie was a favourite with goths. There was a lot of industrial techno, and the pop was mostly 80s music (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division, This Mortal Coil, etc). Everyone had a vampire story, it was ridiculous. Too much white face makeup, in hindsight. But honestly, no one in that club was scary. The scariest guy I remember wore a military beret, combat boots and a trenchcoat (what can I say, he did) and everyone said he was around 40. In a club catering mostly to 18-25 year olds, that was a bit creepy. I spoke to him a few times, both of us being regulars and all. I confirmed his age, and I got the impression that the scariest thing about him was that he liked young girls and was himself rather gross. But that's it.

For sure, a lot of us down there had issues. But mostly we were in our 20s and not really sure what to do with our lives (shocking!) and so we drank, and danced and felt pretty damn good for a few hours every week.

POV

On the radio and tv news about the recent shooting incident at Dawson, this is how I heard the same single shooter -who was learing a long black trenchcoat, and had piercings -described:

- Goth
- Skater
- Grunge
- Punk

I guess we have to start agreeing on what's what. Particularly the girl that described one of the shooter's mohawk as "a retarded hair cut". My favourite.

thankfully, the only Dawson student I know and his friends are ok.

I'm thick...

Acute nasopharyngitis, often known as the common cold, is a mild viral infectious disease of the upper respiratory system (nose and throat). Symptoms include sneezing, sniffling, nasal congestion; scratchy, sore, or phlegmy throat; coughing; headache; and tiredness. Colds typically last three to five days, with residual coughing lasting up to three weeks. As its name suggests, it is the most common of all human diseases, infecting subjects at an average rate of slightly over one infection per year per person.

The common cold belongs to the upper respiratory tract infections. It is different from influenza, a more severe viral infection of the respiratory tract that shows the additional symptoms of rapidly rising fever, chills, and body and muscle aches. While the common cold itself is rarely life threatening, its complications, such as pneumonia, can very well be.

Transmission

The viruses are transmitted from person to person by droplets from coughs or sneezes. The droplets or droplet nuclei are either inhaled directly, or transmitted from hand to hand via handshakes or objects such as door knobs, and then introduced to the nasal passages when the hand touches the nose or eyes.

The virus takes advantage of sneezes and coughs to infect the next person before it is defeated by the body's immune system. Sneezes expel a significantly larger concentration of virus "cloud" than coughing. The "cloud" is partly invisible and falls at a rate slow enough to last for hours—with part of the droplet nuclei evaporating and leaving much smaller and invisible "droplet nuclei" in the air. Droplets from turbulent sneezing or coughing or hand contact also can last for hours on surfaces, although less virus can be recovered from porous surfaces such as wood or paper towel than non-porous surfaces such as a metal bar. A sufferer is most infectious within the first three days of the illness.

Symptoms

Ninety-five percent of people exposed to a cold virus become infected, although only 75% show symptoms. The symptoms start 1–2 days after infection. Generally a cold starts with a sore throat, without any respiratory blockage. From then onwards the symptoms are a result of the body's defense mechanisms: sneezes, runny nose, and coughs to expel the invader, and inflammation to attract and activate immune cells.

Prevention

The best way to avoid a cold is to avoid close contact with existing sufferers, to wash hands thoroughly and regularly, and to avoid touching the face. Anti-bacterial soaps have no effect on the cold virus - it is the mechanical action of hand washing that removes the virus particles. In 2002, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommended alcohol based hand gels as an effective method for reducing infectious viruses on the hands. However, as with standard handwashing, alcohol gels provide no residual protection from re-infection. Tobacco smoking has also been linked with the weakening of the immune system; non-smokers are known on average to take fewer days off sick than the smoking population.

Slow Burner/Learner

I think I finally got what Tom was saying to me a month ago, about how tempting it is to fill in the blanks when you have no information.



Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles)
I am waiting 'til I don't know what, cause I'm sure it's gonna happen then. Time keeps creepin' though the neighborhood, killing old folks, wakin' up babies just like we knew it would. All the neighbors are startin' up a fire, burning all the old folks the witches and the liars. My eyes are covered by my unborn kids, but my heart keeps watchin' through the skin of my eyelids. They say a watched boil won't ever boil, well I closed my eyes and nothin' changed, just some water getting hotter in the flames. It's not a lover I want no more, and it's not heaven I'm pining for, but there's some spirit I used to know, that's been drowned out by the radio! They say a watched pot won't ever boil, you can't raise a baby on motor oil, just like a seed down in the soil you gotta give it time.

Choosing Happy Over Cool Since 2003

I just got back from Viva Las Vegas, after a 4 hour delay in Denver, but what the hell. I'm back home and I love home. I don't care if it's 15 degrees; I don't care if it's dirty; I don't care if this is home to carnivores of happy; I'm home, I love it.

Work was good.

I've been down in the casino every morning at 6am getting my coffee from scantily clad waitresses in Roman dress or the bald guy behind the bar. Three dollars. Three dollars for a random cup of coffee, but whatever. This morning though, I was a bit earlier because of my flight. It was only 5am and it's Saturday so all the drunk kids were out. The hooting, woohooing, your boobs are falling our of your dress drunk kids. A much older woman, looking a bit worn in a shimmery outfit, was sitting by herself at the end of the busy bar. I feel sorry for the staff but I guess they make good money. Everything is different at that time in the casino. The cops were around, and Daniel saw a fight in the Forum Shops. Like our security guy at Events, Marty, used to say: "the underbelly of [fill in conference name]". I didn't really get to see any of the underbelly, but honestly, why would I want to? "Live to see another peaceful day" beat out "a good story" a long time ago for me.

The airport in Montreal was a huge Indian reception. Crowds of young Indians, behind stanchions, holding roses, single roses. Then there was a space in the middle of them and a bench covered with some elaborate scarf. It looked like someone was going to get married right off the plane. But I never got to see the actual event, just the waiting crowd.

My cab driver told me he works 12-14 hours a day every day of the week. I asked him if he only sleeps and works and he said "pretty much. What else is there to do?" and I told him all about getting a life.

***
Visit my cousin's blog. If I was impressed by his paintings before, I'm even more so now. ¿Cuándo me llegará uno de reglo, cof cof?

This one has an interesting anecdote (for me) because it's based on a still from a movie (I think) and my father's in it, and my mother is cut out but she was right next to him. They were walking in a park in Europe in the 70s and were filmed in Fellini's Roma. My parents took me to see it back in the 80s and I remember them: my dad with his beard and still skinny pre-me body (he said he got fat out of "sympathy" for my pregnant mother) and my mother with her thick blonde hair and her huge sunglasses. Celluloid lasts longer than romance, aren't you glad?

*a los que leen español les recomiendo la descripción completa y en primera persona de la anécdota, contada por mi papá en los comentarios del blog de Rodrigo.

some of my favourite people and me, last winter