I ask you this

In an interview, certain questions are what I like to call 'money' questions, other questions will get you nothing and should be avoided.

If you ask something closed ended and leading like 'did you feel like shit?' you assume there was a shitty feeling, and usually the only place to go from there is 'yes' or 'no.' And what would be useful about that?

On the other hand, an open ended neutral question like 'what happened?' is so money. In fact, 'what happened?' is my favourite question.

'I understand you were on the highway, and you were attacked by a beaver. So, tell me, what happened?'

This morning the sublime Anna Maria Tremonti (who is, it has to be said, an iconographic CBC idol of mine), while interviewing three mountain-rescue workers who narrowly escaped an icy death themselves during a bizarro winter storm blast at the top of Mt. Logan, asked the money question.

One climber recounting the story said he relayed a message via base camp to his children, apologizing for his certain death, and letting them know his last thoughts would be of them.

There was a heavy pause, and then the confident coaxing timber of Anna Maria's rich voice sounded simply, and brilliantly asked, how did it feel to know you were going to die?

She got the most extraordinary answer.

a few inches from the edge

Getting spam e-mails that say 'RE: a good boner back in your life,' is beyond cruel.

treasured past

I've just found out that my amazing grandmother (who was screwing her boyfriend at 82, drank a bottle of moose red label everyday until she died -- they smuggled it into the hospital, and liked her meat still bleeding), used to walk down to their little beach by Loch Lomond Lake in her uber fab post-war one-piece and reliably say "You know, I've got the same measurements as Betty Grable, I've got Betty Grable's legs."



Nice gams.

I also just found out that my hands are identical to my mother's, meaning they'll be veiny and painfully arthritic come 65.

shape shifting

Lips, hummingbird feeder and sunset.



Sometime, someone might say something to you that you'll never forget. The best, in my case, was from a beautiful boy who once told me I had the perfect 'one of these' (he ran his finger along the sunken ridge between the tip of my nose to the miniature v at the center of my upper lip) he had ever seen.

Some real fucking bad comments have stayed with me too. And personally, I mostly think my lips are too goddamn wide.

And how are your lips?

fruits of my labor

You wouldn't know it to look at them, but behind the set of unassuming white-curtained windows on the second story of the Cosmo/Kramer's Corner complex at the corner of Botsford and Main, there's a veritable world of commotion.

Large cafeteria-style swinging doors open and shut as actors fly in and out of scenes with wild gusto and the audience is rip roaring as they compete and improv onstage to steal attention from one another. They have enough energy to fill ten of these large dining-hall sized rooms. It's like watching a human circus, only there's more disco.

Welcome to McSweeney Company Dinner Theatre's new summer offering "I Will Survive."

lush perspicacity

Last night was a bizarre mash of liquid-like visuals that I probably couldn't describe vividly enough to do justice to.

Electronic ambient bass filled a brick-lined room, while heady-lidded emo girls danced near me, tossing their hair back and forth, writhing with electric-coloured drinks glowing in their hands and fluorescent orange REV glo-sticks swinging to and fro around their necks.

The crowd was so large, packed so tight, forms bled into one another and I was swimming in a sea of bobbing eyes.

Legs were pirouetting on a table in slouchy white cowboy boots.

On the tiled floor next to my foot, nudging the edge of a toilet bowl, sat a greenish glinting empty plastic pint of bacardi.

And in front of the floor to ceiling mirror, the face of an eighteen-year-old was patterned with tears and mascara. Gasping for air, she stared down at her forearm, tracked to the elbow with gravel and blood from the cat fight she couldn't escape in the parking lot.

I smiled and closed my eyes and sipped the evening through a straw.

verbatim

The teen-age diary, this day circa 1996 (aged a mere 14 years):

mel slapped me today up the side of the head and back down really hard. I lost my cool and sweared really loud and punched her in the chest. mrs. ______ told me a long lecture about self discipline. she heard me swear, but wasn't mad and knows mel was bugging me, I didn't tell on her, but everybody wants me to beat her up - I can't do that even though I could kick her ass if I tried. over the past weekend I've noticed that sometimes I actually felt good about myself. jeff told jill that he thought I was really pretty, but I think he didn't want to know anymore cause probably all the guys hate me. jill wants to get me to a movie with jason or ryan but mostly jason, but he's a horny skin dog and how far will he want me to go? ali says go for it. I dont' want to be 35 and untouched, I'll probably end up being a nun with no life. karen won't have to worry - steve fingered her! gross. I can't believe she let him. I can't believe she told me. I hate my hair. I'm so quick tempered- and I was crying my eyes out about it, scratching on it so hard it was bleeding. I just started scratching and I couldn't stop. it's still bleeding. I think I have a mental problem or split personalities. my head hurts. CKCW is playing American Pie. what should I do? should I date jason to a movie and let him go up my shirt? ali said I'd be a slut if I didn't say no to going that far on a first date. I think I'd let him. ali said I would gain the reputation of being easy! Thanks a lot ali! I don't know what to do (soon as I'm not single maybe I won't have any more stupid problems).

Some things never change.

how serious is martha wainwright?

Yeah, her tits were higher than mine
With a waist that is sugar-fine
I heard she could read & write too
And she's getting a degree in Fucking U

Sexual Psychology
It's easier than philosophy
It's easier than chemistry
Where's my chemisty?

~from Ball and Chain ~ ^wmp

picture's worth a thousand transcriptions

When playing with your digi is more fun than transcribing the mumble-y voices on tapes labeled 'suit guy,' and 'not this side'.

I tried to call you but there was no answer, and suddenly I just felt like crying.

I went outside in my button up shirt, and sank my toes into the cold grass, it felt like an ancient sponge, and I stood there picturing the grass to keep back the tears.

I wish you lived here, in this province even, so we could stand there together sometime. We could help eachother. Or lay on a blanket and read together. And I could bring you flowers like I used to.

I'm home but I feel lost.

woman behind bars

Someone called from a downtown bar today to ask 'if I was still interested.' It's like a cartoon when I open my wallet -- a little dust cloud and a black fly float out and it's clear I need something more substantial than freelance writing -- but while my lips formed the word 'yes,' my voice still hesitated.

Why am I still doing this?

I've been a bar wench for six years during the hard trudge through two university degrees. And if it's any indication how much I've jostled around, I worked eight different bars during that long haul.

I have the bars down. I've seen it all. I've been grabbed, yelled at, nearly thrown-up on and sexually harassed more times I could ever count. I've seen snow fall in the bathrooms, drunks crawling across the floor, criminals stealing safes and predators accosting young waitresses. I've cursed-out customers, fell in love with a manager, made out in a few backrooms and worked 17-hour doubles on Fridays with only one bathroom break till my feet bled. I've shared drinks with bar-owners, CEO's and celebrities, invented martinis up the wazoo, got tips, got rich, was exhausted, was poor, and on and on -- and it never stops, it's always dark, the night keeps rolling on and on. Never-ending night.

How can I do it again? Here? Somewhere fabulous like Paris, New York, maybe London I could do it again, but here? No one's going to hand me a cushy editor position in London. The bars would be necessity. What's necessary about this shithole?

I hate this place. I already hate the job I know they're going to offer me.

I'm frustrated I'm still here.

toothless tiger

Doesn't everyone just love new toothbrushes? Like hard probing heaven inside my mouth, and I feel so utterly clean after using one for the first time -- like I scrubbed my fucking soul with those tiny bristles. I like them so much I brush twice. 'Umm.. I'm just going back to the washroom for a bit...'

"Where'd you get those teeth? Do you whiten? You're teeth are sooooo white!"
"That's cause I brush like three times a day, bitch."

Well that was a while ago, I've been drinking too much wine lately...

My brother called from Dallas tonight, and I was the only one around he could spill to. I won't air all his business, but it had to do with his girlfriend and his worry that she'd given him an ultimatum in 'girl speak,' when she said something akin to 'it's been four years and you won't commit, and I'm thinking I need to move on,' (read: 'marry me or lose me, shit or get off the pot, I don't see no rock on this finger' -- take your pick).

He's a bit anxious.

It surprises me how little and how much alike we are. We most share a sense of humor, but a major difference is - I think - I have a good idea why I'm fucked up, whereas he might deny slightly that there's anything wrong with him at all...

Shit, we've all got flaws. I'm so majorly flawed, it's a wonder I even know what my own problem is, but I do ( and anyway, the real problem's never having the problem in the first place, it's sticking a finger in it to try and smooth it out).

Me? I have a fear of intimacy I can't fix. The gals trying to set me up ask what I look for in a date, and I say 'unavailability.'

"If he was never with you in the first place, he can never leave you, and if no one gets left, no one gets hurt."

"I won't pretend to know exactly who you are, if you promise never to see me for who I am."

Anyway, if I end up a spinster, I ain't playing that gig without the barrage of pets. Only, I'm not doing cats (sneezing at the thought), it's going to have to be thousands of siamese fighting fish in tiny bowls that spread light in iridescent blue fractal rainbows across my wrinkled face.

I've gotta go brush my teeth.

the ass also rises

re-reading some hemingway.



what? whatever. you can't see anything.

mainstreet right now

curious-er and curious-er

I keep most of my music on my hard drive, so imagine my surprise the first time I try to pop in a mix since the computer's been fixed (the 'spatially unaware mix '03'), and discover an alien disc already in the drive.

I flip it out and hold it up. 'Classic Music 259' is scrawled across the bottom.

Suddenly my mind reels a few weeks back to my old apartment, when I took home a cello player who insisted on bringing his classical cello mix in with us (his fingers would flit across my back with every sweeping crescendo -- at first it was sexy as hell as I went down on him, playing maestro to his concerto, but the morning after I felt had by a flimsy gimmick).

I tried to remember whether that was the last time I'd used the drive, but then I know I burnt a CD full of my *ahem* more personal files, lest prying computer geeks discover them during the fix up.

So the only answer is, these hardware wizards like classical music. I popped that shit in and gave a listen... but it was no bizet so it didn't make my cut.

Well it's raining raining raining, and I meant to spend some time with the camera for these HERE stories. Yeah, they're a little ghetto, they don't have regular freelance photographers, so here I am trying to force my little point and shoot to do things an SLR would only scoff at. I'd kill for a camera like that.

I'm settling. But I get the occasional nice shot. Can you believe they'll pay me for this? OK, not that much, but still.

nightmares in the crystal bowl

I'm a clairvoyant. When I dream that someone close to me dies, I know it's cause I really have to pee.

they made a monkey out of me

Want to know what happens when you get excited pointing out your stories' smooth progess? Your parade gets rained on, literally.

I have to find some kids jigging for an expose on highschool truancy, and well, shit, it's going to fucking rain tomorrow. No little skaterboi wannabes cutting class at the skate park when it's cats and dogs out there. And I've lost their mentality, so I'm really not able to surmise where else the coolsters are when they're AWOL from class.

The story is now spanking me. The burning kind of spank.

Today it was warm enough for

and tomorrow... what a fucking waste. Rain should be evaporating into summer by now, not soaking it.

I've got an idea.

Are you going to the city by the harbour?
Want to go early and meet at the market?
I'll wear something that says something of blooming flowers and warm breezes like I never do.
And we'll walk outside despite the rain, you can smile that cheshire smile like you always do.

You know, I just can't believe you're not sick of me yet.

I've got your number

Sometimes chasing a story is painfully full of dead ends. And when the fruitless chase against deadlines starts, the panic sets in -- you'll settle for anything.

Then sometimes you find what you're looking for, but it's not half as intriguing as you supposed, and you're stuck listening to someone yammer on and on over the phone trying vainly to crush what they think are important details into one breath.

But then rarely, the story just lays itself bare at your prodding like an obedient pet.

Today saw the most rare of all. Not one, but three stories I'm chasing for HERE just seemed to miraculously fall into place like pegs in holes.

Want an interview? SURE! Now? Now's great! Want a picture? I'll pose!

I ask and these stories bend over so I can spank them.

I'm on a fucking roll.

ball and chain

Let me tell you about love.

Love is telling someone to quit smoking.

The people you don't love, well their lungs can rot.

'You need to quit,' I smiled, shivering outside the panama club thinking of the warm half-empty glass of red I'd left on the bar.

"I'm trying, I want to." His tall sandy head-of-hair bends forward to aim the cigarette butt down into the grout in the alleyway cobbles.

"It's not because I wouldn't kis- -"

"It's because you care about me."

And he comes back to my place, because there's no one else there, and I point out the couch, but he says, "I want to be in your bed, I won't touch you, I just miss you. I just want to be next to you."

And I just say yes. Then he's bowed over me, holding me from underneath my hips on the edge of the tall bed and I think his skin is beautiful. As he draws backward sinking to his knees, his head tips down, my fingers weave through the sandy hair massing on my stomach, and we're breathing, and he whispers, "I love you." And I say, "me too."

And then I say, "stop this cheesy movie, I want to get off."

the fucking rules

Here it is again. Watching Sex and the City like a chump and trying not to identify with those foxy four rampaging fems. All my misguided girlfriends say I'm their Samantha -- the one in the group who most gets it on with ruthless abandon. Of course, if your girlfriends ever say this to you, you must vehemently and laughingly deny deny deny (despite the nagging voice in your head saying 'oh fucking accept it, you're the promiscuous one').

And what the hell, what the fucking hell is wrong with that?
I'm a predator, not a pussy, and I'll admit it.

But there are, shall we say, parameters. I may be a shade of Samantha, but I don't just do it, don't just get what I want and bail. Some wise [cracking] movie character once came up with 'be desireless, be excellent, be gone (the tao of steve),' and I disapprovingly agree, but there's more to it on the female side. There is a level of complication we need to feel comfortable.

So here's what I'm proposing.

~ the flirt is an art that should never die ~

Flirting means nothing, and should be everything to a strong fem. Some guys are responsive, some could care less, but the most stellar guys crave it. And when you click into that game with one another, the flirt is essentially a not-articulated secret wish to fuck. And the wish is also a kind of question; a kind of hope, and the hopeful potential is sexy, whether or not you ever get that wish. The only way to ruin the flirt is to use it as a weapon, or not do it at all. Be true to the flirt -- make it an unconditional wish and not an expectation.

~ never assume anything ~

If you're always second-guessing whether someone likes/cares/loves/is desperate for you, you'll always be miserable. Be happy with what you get in the moment, and if that moment isn't ringing your bell, then move the fuck on, cause that ain't gonna happen and you can't make it. It's all about the I not the we, and that may sound selfish, but you come to terms with what you want, then you'll know it when you see it instead of always expecting it and being disappointed.

~ guys are not complicated ~

Stop analyzing. There's nothing to analyze. They're not programmed to think that hard. In fact, they're programmed to run away at the very sight of complication. Girl. Hot. Happy. Sex. Food. Love.

~ for godssake's, will ya loosen up and have some damn fun in bed? ~

'Your cock is so hard, and I like it,' repeat. 'I like it like that [read: the truth], little [faster/slower/harder], oh baby [or insert name here] this is so good.' And get a vibrator.

~ be secure ~

Even if he's a senseless prick (and don't pretend like you don't know if he is, why do you like the abuse?), if he's in bed with you, he thinks you're gorgeous. If he says 'you're beautiful,' the answer isn't 'no I'm not.' Learn to accept the compliment.

~ don't fuck with your eyes closed ~

And having touched on guys that are senseless pricks -- don't be afraid to love yourself enough to walk the hell out the door if you're hurt. This is a throwback to 'never assume anything.' Don't stick around letting someone push you around because you assume they're going to change. Even you have a hard time swallowing that load of horseshit.

And my personal, more useful fucking rules:

~ never make plans when you part ways ~

Sure, say whether you might phone or e-mail later, but don't start making lunch dates. And this isn't about corralling him, it's about corralling yourself. What if you meet the person of your dreams the minute you walk out the door?

~ dance at the club, don't go to pick up ~

Girls who dance and have fun are sexy. Gals who stand off to the side frowning, or cry in the bathroom are losers. Be sexy.

OK, so I'm preachy. But I'm happy. Confident even. I don't even need to fuck.

eliot and the girl can't do the job

I re-read TS Eliot's waste land hoping to be inspired and figure out what to call this site, but there's nothing and I'm still thinking...

Almost went with 'hyacinth girl.' You know, in the first part: the whole Grecian myth, the ambiguous feminine voice, the ultimate polarities of love (paralysis and ecstacy) and that scrap from Tristan and Isolde --

Fresh blows the wind
To the homeland
My Irish darling
Where do you linger?

It always stood out. It's soft and layered, and I like it, but on second thought, I'm not soft by any means. And I couldn't really call this spot 'bats with baby faces,' could I? Although, if someone wants to call their blog 'bats with baby faces,' I'd really like to see it.

Anyway, I'm at home worried that my possible radio job has fallen through. All these resumes, pressing the skirts and the pantsuits, curriculum vitaes, cover letters and phone calls, and yelling and tearing my hair out. And the interviews are all so positive, it's maddening.

I write Tarantino scripts in my head as I sit prostrate in alien office buildings.

The smiling big-faced dope of a prospective employer is 'hmmm-ing' and nodding and saying, 'yes, why yes this looks good, and I see you did this and you did that... excellent...,' and unconvincingly, '...well, we'll be calling you either way I'd say, oh, maybe next week.'

Instead of tepidly pointing out my phone number, my shoulders twist and my knees bounce into the air as my legs dive to the tiled floor and spring back to launch my body into a spiraling upright 360 arc airborn across his desk, nailing his temple squarely with my right high heel, skewering his brain and killing him instantly.

And of course then I immediately get offered the dead man's job.

What, do they think I spent the last six years fucking and drinking and fucking off instead of getting these degrees? Right, well they only half got me there.

Fucking and drinking and fucking off could be a good title.
Give me a suggestion. Do you know me?

five things you need to know (& five you didn't)

Five things you need to know about me:

1.    I was born October 26, 1981 and raised in the Maritimes (predominantly Moncton, New Brunswick). Stop asking my ethnicity. My mother is Acadian and my father is Irish, so I speak French and Mick
2.    I'm still trying to figure out who will recognize (or care) that the 'BAH, BJ' next to my name is in recognition of an arts and a journalism degree. I'm leaving it off my business cards next time round.
3.    Ask me about my horse.
4.    I took up acting because there were too many things I wanted to do and decided it was the only way to kind of experience everything. I took up journalism because I like to tell stories.
5.    My favorite place in the world is the White Mountains in North Conway, New Hampshire. My second favorite place is home.

Five things you didn't need to know about me:

1.    I have been close to death precisely twice; my appendix tried to kill me at age six and I fell down a ravine snowboarding when I was sixteen.

2.    I love thunderstorms. I'll take that dare. I can shoot a gun. I used to pen cattle for sport. Given the opportunity, I'd still ride my horse through your backyard. Take me swimming. I dance when no one's around.

3.    I still consider my highschool sweetheart my 'ex-boyfriend.'

4.    I'm the biggest klutz you'll ever meet. I've been branded 'spatially unaware' more times than I can count. I'm the proverbial bull in a china shop. Don't let me next to your things. I'll break them.

5.    Too bad for you, I'm going to marry a cowboy.