So tired… let rambling ensue… set the mood: ugh… the rhythmic sound of my snoring.

How to define a world in which women gain power and independence by baring mid-drifts and leaving their jeans undone? I wonder, with peelers and Hooters in mind, if the women who use their bodies for economic gain are really clever (entrepreneurs in a way) or stupid – the line is rather fine. Does my question make me a feminist or misogynist? If post-modernism was meant to break down the traditional class lines of expression, allowing everyone to have an equal voice, what does it mean when Creedence and Beefheart are replaced with a hand full of blondes who look and sound the same? This is, of course, the dichotomy of our society, the struggle to remain an individual in a world whose fashion industry pump out the same foreign made articles, whether you pay twenty dollars or three hundred. Which Swiffer suits my individual needs? Why is it that if Dr.Phil says men are the problem, but then yells at the women for being stupid enough to fall for them, then encourages the happy family ideologies from 1950s advertising? Are we really moving forward? Are we stagnant in a world where we’ve quietly agreed to consume only to boost the economy (in this sense we are doing it to help ourselves, not for the material goods, it sounds like capitalism, but it also smells of something else…)? Or are we just making a figure-eight, where we feel as though we are evolving, but we are really just back in the 1950s idealism again, but instead of cold war fear, we are entrenched in WMDs – what do you mean Saddam is buying thousands of Playstations?  Why are gas prices so high? How have they survived so long without our guidence? Does yellow mean they are still jealous of our freedom? Which colour is IN this season, teal or seafoam? I wonder if I feel like a diet Pepsi, or a diet Pepsi with lime…

I need bed.

Soon to follow: Zombie review session.  Why? Cause I was reminded that I’ve not once mentioned zombies in this blog, which is shocking and disturbing, since they are the ultimate metaphor for the Western consumer. Nice segue, eh?

Smoking, or Why Do Terrible Things Seem Romantic?… set the mood: Bukowski – Modest Mouse

“My air sacks are feeling better already”

When I started my diatribe on smoking and my inability to exit myself from its carcenogenic wasteland, then intention was to look at why it is that we have developed this feeling that smoking is somehow romantic and powerful, and not just an addiction like any other. The media is certainly to blame, and I wanted to find out how they, along with cigarette manufacturers, were able to manage this cultural perspective*

Of course, the rant also included a detailed history of my smoking patterns, which seem to underscore a strong link to the men in my life, past and present. This I surely knew, and then realized that it held a link to something more.

Rather than query the obvious (media in bed with Philip Morris results in young children buying Popeye candy cigarettes at the corner store leads to…people like me), I thought more about the idea of being tormented and that kind of sex appeal, since the men in my life have that in common too. I think of James Dean films, the leads in Withnail and I, Humbert Humbert of Lolita fame, further back there is Soren Kirkegaard the father of existentialism. All sexy, all alluring, all complete head cases.

I don’t know if they are viewed as misfits and therefore powerful by men, but I’m sure many women find them attractive for their brooding nature, their tormented souls that are understood by no one except perhaps the one perfect woman who can walk through that door and change them forever. Because this is what women do. They save the man whose soul is dying. That is why women like men who are messed up, because they want to save someone in order to feel useful.

Shame on us. Thinking we have the power to change other people. No good woman could walk into Withnail’s life and coo at him and prepare him a hot meal only to have him say “My God! My thirst for alcohol has left me completely thanks to your undying love for me! Where is that old can of lighter fluid? I shall toss it into the streets post haste and we shall walk to the park, hand in hand, to feed the wolves under the warm sunshine.” Wouldn’t happen. He’d push her aside the minute a bottle of brandy was sniffed.

Of course, everyone tells us we can do it, particularly men. I’m not sure how Rebel Without a Cause would have ended had it been written by a woman, but it’s amazing how quickly Jim turned into a wonderful sensitive guy once Judy started giving him notice. Okay, he was clearly sensitive in the beginning, what with being torn apart and all by his manly mother and frilly father, but in reality this guy would have suffered severe depression. I’m attracted to a man who can cry, but not when it’s more than I do (that’s not to say I cry often, but when it happens I try to make it count).

Let’s see, he got cut up in a knife fight, took part in a chickie run (I don’t care what era this is, I don’t see how any woman would have stood by with a smile on her face when her boyfriend decided that driving straight towards a cliff is the best way to show up the new guy), was arrested for public drunkeness, things that would be more annoying and tiresome in real life than the way they are romantically portrayed in the film.

After having read the life story of Kirkegaard, along with selections of his work, I have to say I’m into the guy. This could be because after rejecting his fiance he pinned for her for years, so much so that the latter was buried next to him upon her death. It appears he never forgave himself for having left her, and bemoaned existence thereafter, vowing to never love again.

This is hot for two reasons: he felt terrible about leaving his love, and gave his heart to her always despite not being able to be with her (undying love), and two he is attractive because he’s just the type of guy I (or any other wonderful woman) could coax into giving love another chance (makes me feel special). Of course, it all ends in a round of misery because he’ll always be alone (with his sadness keeping him warm at night) and I (and you, and every other woman) will feel the pang of failure when unable to free his heart from its cage of despair.

Humbert was sexy no only because of his description of himself, which I’m sure we all believed (“handsome hunk of hollywood manhood” read: tormented soul), but also because he has been drawn to young girls ever since an unfortunate experience as a child when, upon prospecting his first sexual encounter, is riped away from his young love, and must molest children in order to feel whole. Unfortunately for him, pedophilia is no answer, as it only creates a longing for more pedophilia, but it is also illegal and dehumanizing.

And yet I’m sure most readers of Lolita felt sorry for this man, a man who has been driven from a normal, respectable life, to something torrid and sinful (and not in the good way) and disturbing. Who did I hate when I finished that book? Lolita. That’s who I hated. Little slut. But this sentiment is rather preposterous. Okay, she was a 12 year old hooch who used him for money, but she’d also been totally abused by the guy for years. But I still hate her. This is worrisome to me.

“Yeah I know, he’s a pretty good read, but who would want to be such an asshole?”

I can’t put my finger on what started all this. Clearly someone is to blame for having romanticized decaying human spirit, making it all seem dandy to hate the world and wallow in sadness all the time. Whoever it was is laughing now I’m sure.

Seeing all these men who just sit around thinking about how unfortunate the world is, unsure of why life has treated them so poorly (despite the fairly universal knowledge that if you’re sitting around drinking your sorrow away in an unending and very vain search for happiness at the bottom of a bottle, then you probably don’t have problems that are all that depressing — like having to walk miles in bare feet for food, or having your hand cut off because you didn’t bring in enough diamonds this week (cause that’ll teach ‘em for next week).

Although cultural images of pain (a perfect example for myself would be the intensity in which Selena claws at the bottle of pills during an anxiety attack in the film Dolores Claiborne. She downs them with alcohol, and shakily collapses into a ball on the floor of the bathroom. There is something about her chainsmoking trauma that is appealing, leading me to believe she would play me beautifully in the film about my life, which makes little sense as I’ve never been addicted to anything remotely harmful) are rampant, there was a sense of this sympathy towards the dammed prior to moving pictures.

Wuthering Heights is one of those novels that has you questioning the entire time why it is that Heathcliff is so fucking attractive even though he’s a bloody arsehole. And not only that, in the end he dies a changed man, still broken hearted but less of a jerk, and is buried next to his lady love that he never had in life. So even women encouraged this kind of behaviour.

So after pushing romanticism aside, it has become clear to me that brooding in self pitty and loathing is not all that appealing. Yes, feeling emotions other than happiness are an important part of being human, but boo-hooing oneself perpetually is quite tiresome it seems. I mean, I’d argue against this fact if I had undergone some horrid childhood or been stained by terrible things as a teen or young adult. But truth be told, there is little that has happened to me that should make me feel as though I must drape myself in black and listen to downer music in order to convey how deeply misunderstood I feel.

In fact, misunderstood isn’t how I feel at all. I mean really, how depressed and misunderstood do you think Tom Waits feels? He’s a storyteller, he’s not singing about how horrible he thinks life has treated him.  He charges $250,000 per performance for Christ’s sake!

*I’m not saying that everyone agrees that smoking is sexy or alluring at all. This idea has changed somewhat into a different view of smokers. Although in reality many people have quit successfully and joined the pack of smoker exhilation movement, it is still a common thing on television, particularly on period shows (for obvious reasons), but the true facts (smokers cough, cracked voice, aged appearence, excessive salivary and mucus production, and CANCER) that spawn from constant tobacco use are rarely shown in gruesome detail.

As an aside I should point out that I’m not much of a smoker presently, and that ever since the occasional butt has caused my chest to feel as though it is about to collapse, I’ve decided to curb my desires by running every day, since I feel shitty when I smoke and run, but less so when I’ve not had a fag in my system for a period of time. And when I mentioned I am not, and have never been, addicted to anything harmful, it was not a lie.  A physical addiction to smoking I have not, a slight psychological comfort (read: addiction of mental proportions) is present, and I blame the above representations (along with many others) for making me feel that as a writer I should chainsmoke and drink like a fish and be miserable.

Additionally, the comment about Tom waits’s charge should not be misconstrued as a belief that money makes people happy.  It doesn’t.  But I don’t imagine that Tom Waits could have kept his marriage and his music together for so many years if he were a depressive alcoholic of the kind presented in his music.  That is all.

An Open Letter to Customers… set the mood: Float On – Modest Mouse

Dear Customers,

Greetings! First, I would like to thank you all for your ongoing devotion to the establishment I manage to manage. I can honestly say that I appreciate the business and compliments, as my battere-wife-like relationship to the store has me care for it as though it were my own.

This letter is a thanks as well as a push for understanding. Rather than ranting in my usual fashion, I’d like to put things into a perspective that might be understood by those who spend their days in office buildings.

Occasionally, or more often than not perhaps, a scream or two escapes the kitchen of my place of work, along with the exasperated tone we so often take when we are frustrated. But you see, this frustration – which can sound like rage for the most part – has complicated origins.

Imagine this scenario:

7:00 am: You arrive at your office an hour early with great ambitions to take care of all those papers and projects that have piled up on your desk. To your dismay, your quiet time is shattered by your ringing phone. After taking a couple of calls, you decide to turn off the ringer until your official start time.

8:00am: You turn your ringer on, and realize you have twelve new messages that you must try to listen to and respond to while trying to take the many other calls you are being bombarded with.

9:00am: You realize you have an 11 o’clock meeting you must begin to prepare for, and you do this while talking with the co-workers who are stopping by with questions, updates, and chit-chats.

11:00am: You attend your meeting. You arrive late because you are caught up by a co-worker in the hall.

12:00pm: Everyone is leaving for lunch. You decide to forego lunch today in order to catch up, since no one calls during lunch because everyone is away from their desks. Your fellow co-worker one cublicle over asks to borrow money for a hotdog. You loan it to him, saving enough for an afternoon coffee.

12:30pm: It is raining so your buddy who borrowed money from you is eating his fresh, savoury street meat right next to you and the smell is seductively crawling over the cubicle wall to your nostrils. You tell your brain to ignore the rumbling of your stomach as you push onward.

1:30pm: You realize you haven’t yet checked your email. Your heart sinks at the vision of 27 messages in your inbox, and the dream of an afternoon break is rained out by the dark cloud now hovering above your hanging head.

3:00pm: You sigh loudly as Street Meat thanks you again and tells you to have a good weekend just as your phone rings. On the line is someone who emailed you ten minutes ago and wants to know why you haven’t returned his message yet. You get a beep. On the other line, another co-worker is wondering something similar, having messaged you an hour earlier.

5:00pm: Thankful to finally finished some work, you look at the time; you’ve been at work for 10 hours and you’ve had nothing to eat since 6:15am. You’re exhausted so you call it a day.

Now, imagine this is what every work day was like. And imagine that you had to do this six days a week. For less than 15 dollars an hour. Oh, and you don’t have a chair, so you have to stand. And that you have to keep a smile on your face constantly because the people you are continuously talking to are there in person rather than on the phone.

Can you say with a straight face that you’d be sunny and cheerful to everyone, even when confronted with many rude, self-centred, demanding people who believe they are the only ones in the world who command your attention?

I thought not.

Despite this, I’m trying very hard to remain calm when faced with daily frustrations. I’ve taken to deep breathing when exasperation hits. I like to think I’m a very calm person, as I’m not upset by much (unless I’m on my bike and I’m cut off or harassed by drivers, or if someone is particularly rude or offensive when I’ve been perfectly pleasant). I do like to relay things in a way that may seem as though I’m more upset than I am, but I just have a dramatic story-telling style.

Anyway, have a nice weekend, I’m sure I will when I eventually get one. I’ll get on top of arranging for that sometime when I’m not too busy…

.megan.

Shaving my head – Part I

So I’m going to shave my head.

Yes, I still like boys. No, I don’t want to kill everyone. It’s not because of the music I listen to or my decision to return to veganism. It doesn’t represent anything about who I am as a person, nor will it change me. Well, it might, but I imagine it will only make me stronger.

Last year was a bad year. Well, the middle part. The beginning of this year was not very good either, but in a different way. Hair grows in six-month life cycles, and if you’re prone to auto-immune disorders (where your body attacks your body instead of disease) you’ll likely suffer from hair loss when you’re very stressed out. Of course, it will only happen six months later.

In February when my hair started to fall out meant that last summer was taking a delayed toll on my body. I was up north and I noticed the bald spot. I was too scared and shocked and whatever words can describe that feeling of losing something you’ve always had and had always appreciated, and truly felt you deserved.

I mean, I’m 24, my hair couldn’t possibly be falling out (something I’d always imagined as being terrible beyond belief), and when I’ve done everything for my hair- gave it a wonderful hairdresser, not dyed it too much, used expensive hair products, tried not to dry it out, never slept with it in a pony tail – this seemed unfair. I put a hat on hoping it would go away. Two days later, at home, I pulled out a mirror and checked again. I hadn’t been dreaming, and so I started to cry.

I started wearing hats and scarves to cover up my thinning hair, and also so I wouldn’t feel as though I needed to style it. Four months have passed and I still can’t style it without shedding like a cat, and I constantly have to clean the drain catch so as to keep the water from lapping at my ankles in the shower.

This has been an upsetting process. Though the patch has grown in for the most part, it seems to be coming out from all over. After reading up on Alopecia I tried to come to grips with the idea that lost hair in patches usually grows back, but continuous all over loss is a different story (ie. eyebrow in the candy beans, ha ha). One I don’t care to daydream at this time in my life.

Even though I’ll be seeing an accupuncturist in September, and my belief in the process may very well help, I’m still going to buzz it. I mean, I wear hats all the time now anyway, so it doesn’t much matter if it looks bad. Even if I didn’t shave, my hair would take some time to grow back fully. I’m taking this to be a time when I can begin again, totally fresh.

For years my hair has defined my self-worth, something I’ve come to realize as a bit of a problem. I was the fat kid in highschool, something that still haunts me, causes me to feel shitty about myself even now as a size 8. I’ve had the same hair dresser for 6 years because I trusted no one else. She gave me the hair cut that made me realize that dressing like a hobo wasn’t the way to go, and ever since then I’ve embraced my gender completely.

But I think it’s time to move on from that. Should some dead follicles define my femininity? My sexuality? My lifestyle? My personality? Fuck that, I say.

And you may all rub my bald head for good luck.

Harumph… set the mood: Yesterday – the beatles

It’s not surprising that my iPod died last month, this month I’ve lost access to my main email account that I’ve had for 7 years, and my computer is very very sick.  So sick that it’s given up the struggle to live.  He’s now being treated, but the diagnosis is not for certain.  He may need to be replaced.

And it’s not surprising that this happened before I was able to backup my files. 

I tried.  And I actually had a monthly backup system up until March – .mac.com provided a backup along with their exciting internet services I never made use of, as well as the email account I never used.  All for the low low price of 140 dollars a year! Right… when renewal time came around, I scrapped it because it was doing me no good.  Clearly I was wrong.  I tried again, but when I attempted to do a full backup, it was discovered that although my 120gb external drive was all fine and good for saving files one at a time, it was not alright to do a backup because it isn’t mac compatible.  That’s what happens when your PC loving parents buy you compy accessories. 

So now I sit, using a PC (shudder), annoyed by its very PCness, and wondering if, once my files are recovered/my compy is well again, I’ll have lost nothing.  Of course, visions of Sarah Jessica Parker in the mac help centre on Sex and the City, in shock that her computer has failed her, then destroyed that all of her work has been chewed up and spat out in the form of a small jumble of wingdings has entered my mind.  The thought of all of my written work in the last 3 years being turned into squares and happy faces has me crawling to the nearest corner for a small rocking session.  After the weeping, of course.

Despite how horrifying this is, I wonder why.  Why is it that I care so much?

Everyone knows that Mrs. Hemingway lost Mr. Hemingway’s writings – all of them – in a train station.  I’m sure she got quite the drunken beating for that, and with good reason.  Although, methinks Ernest should have kept a tighter leash on his life’s work. 

T E Lawrence lost his first manuscript for Seven Pillars of Wisdom that was about 250,000 words long when he took someone else’s bag in a train station*.  I’m not sure if the word unfortunate or embarrassing is more applicable.

I imagine my lack of creating a solid backup system could be considered embarrassing and not unfortunate.  More like grabbing the wrong bag at the train station than letting my husband travel with my manuscripts under the assumption that if I married him and romped through the 20’s with him that he’s competent enough to not lose my entire creative output. 

Okay, so this is my fault.  I get it.  Hopefully this is just the Gods of Technology playing some kind of joke on me to teach me for not taking anything from tv to heart.  But if this isn’t the case, if everything is gone, what then?  Why should I be upset or afraid? If I believe that I am a good writer with the natural talent that, when nurtured and challenged, could be a great writer [of some sort], then why should I cry when everything is erased? I should be able to rewrite or just start over again, with the strength and confidence to say that I’ll be better this time ’round.  After all, my abilities weren’t in the compy, nor was my drive, imagination, or passion.

Right?

*I’ve taken note that, as a writer, I should no longer travel by train. Train stations seem to be back luck zones.

Vegan Cupcakes, test #1… set the mood: Summerlong – Emm Gryner

Earlier this week my future partner in business picked up “Vegan Cupcakes Take Over The World” for me, insisting that I be the cupcake master once we open our bakery. Having already claimed the Pie Master title for herself, I felt it was only fair to accept the challenge.

And since the authors say that no one wants to read about your day at work, they actually want pictures of cupcakes, I thought “fuck it, let them have cupcakes.”

Since I can’t actually follow a recipe without augmenting it somewhat, it is no surprise that my first batch turned out badly.

Lacking the ingredients to make most of the more interesting recipes, I went for the Banana Split Cupcakes. I used spelt flour instead of wheat, since spelt is nice on tummies and the only other option was garbanzo (blech!). There is a little part of the recipe that calls for pineapple preserves, and since I’m not much of a preserve girl, I skipped this part and replaced part of the oil with pineapple-apple sauce. I threw in some chocolate chips cause I had some.

As I waited for them to bake, I realised that I’d forgotten a key ingredient: sugar.

I was a bit concerned. Not much since I’ve cut most forms of sugar from my diet, so I usually have to half what most recipes call for.

They tasted pretty good when they came out, but they needed more soymilk (probably because of the spelt), so they were more muffiny than cupcake-like.

The icing portion was a whole different set of problems.

I’m not very good with vegan icing. Anything that doesn’t involve mixing sugar with cocoa and margarine is confusing to me. I decided to pep the muffincakes up with the peanutbutter icing… BUT I only use natural, and although I skim the oil off the top, the consistency is very runny. Adding to that, the tofu I had was regular firm stuff, not silken firm, so it didn’t blend well at all and it ended up rather runny.

SO, I hollowed out the cakes, filled them with the peanut goo, put their tops back on and slathered them with vegan chocolate ganache and crushed peanuts.

After chilling them in the freezer during the busy lunch-rush, my coworkers dug in to my sugarless cupcakes. I felt they were a little dry, but they thought the cupcakes were fabulous. The only comment was: Next time, put in more filling.

cupcakes, rosewater, and francois truffaut… set mood: sympathique – pink martini (yes, this song is my life)

Until the day comes when I may spend every working hour baking delicious vegan/gluten-free/diabeteic-friendly goods, I’ll just have to make my days off as relaxing as possible. And when I relax, I tend to do pilates or yoga, do some writing, and bake. Even though I spend every day baking at work, there is something less than satisfying about baking someone elses hard work. As yummy as the scones are at my place of employment, I myself cannot enjoy them, and my natural independence has me wanting a place of my own.

So today I cycled to the local bulk store and natural food store to pick up the ingredients for three batches I wanted to whip up for tomorrow as a farewell to a coworker. I picked the Mexican Hot Chocolate, the Red Velvet, and the Coconut Lime cupcakes from “Vegan Cupcakes Take Over The World”

I changed these recipes a bit too, to make them gluten-free or gluten-reduced (the red velvets I made with spelt, the other two with quinoa and white rice flour), and used applesauce instead of oil, splenda instead of sugar.

Opting to not listen to Isa and Terry about using papers only, I picked up some coloured silicone cups since I knew the reduced fat version I’d be making would be difficult to free from papers.

I must say, if being a vegan baker means I can spend four hours baking cute cupcakes, drinking rose-scented water from a crystal goblet, and watching French new wave films (I chose Truffaut’s “Day For Night” – a movie for people who love movies), I’ve found my calling. Throw in writing a few chapters of the book I’ve not yet begun to write, and today would be the greatest day off ever (okay, I worked on a short story…a bit).

One of my many hidden talents that remain hidden only because of their uselessness came in handy at last. I’ve got this ability to sculpt little things, in particular tiny heads. Example:

Pierre Elliot Trudeau. I know, the similarity is remarkable. The only thing remotely remarkable would be that he is about an inch high. Yeah, I belong in Ripley’s.

To decorate them, I decided to pay tribute to my upcoming trip to Mexico (fingers crossed, I haven’t actually booked a flight yet) for Day of the Dead by making little marzipan sombrero topped skulls on chocolate ganache and the Red Velvet some small red flowers on pink icing. I know, marzipan isn’t gluten-free, so I only ate a little, I swear.

It took me about 6 hours in total to make the three batches. The Coconut Lime cupcakes sank because I put a little lime juice in to help with the moisture of the gluten-free flours, but it ended up being too much. Regardless, they are super moist. I like to think that even if they sink a bit, moisture can make up for it.

After spending the day eating nothing but little tastings of the batters and icings, along with too many fruit sweetened smarties, I felt really really sick. It seemed strange to sit down with a small salad topped with grilled chicken after being a vegan baker all day, but considering I don’t eat wheat, sugar, eggs, or dairy, a little chicken is acceptable.

Sedimentary Rock

The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, The Who, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Bruce Springsteen, Queen, Aerosmith, Van Halen, Meat Loaf, Kiss, U2, Def Leopard, Bon Jovi, Guns’n'Roses, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Green Day, Jack White.

I’ve become a little obsessed with www.threadless.com. I’ve ordered 8 shirts over the last three weeks, and those were just the ones I really really dug AND they had in my size.

Basically, you become a member and you can buy tees, submit designs, and vote on other designs. If you become a designer, they give you money when you win (and you get your tee printed, which is the grand prize in my mind). The tees are fairly cheap as far as cool-ass printed t-shirts from the internet are concened. Only 15 bucks (US) for mens, 17 for womens. Shipping is by weight and seems to be rather prompt.

I have posted the design above WITHOUT PERMISSION because it has sparked a bit of a debate among voters. The consensus seems to be that it is brilliant. The debate has spawned from the designers choice of Rock artists.

He said that he wanted pure rock verging on punk only, and thus was able to omit Elvis and the Beatles. This was where the first problem began.

A rock shirt that doesn’t give credit to the Beatles? That’s a bit outrageous. Personally, I think anyone who doesn’t like the Beatles should be considered for institutionalization, but everyone’s opinion varies and that makes the world an interesting place, blah blah blah. If you don’t like the Beatles, fine. At least admit that they CHANGED THE DIRECTION OF MUSIC, or their producer did. It seems that although Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and whats-his-face were geniuses in their own right, George Martin’s influence allowed their evolution from good to mind-blowing (for the times).

Admittedly I’ve not heard a lot by the Rolling Stones, however I do own a couple of their early records, a best of, and even the comatose have heard a majority of their singles. I’m no officianado; my knowledge of the Beatles is more substantial. That being said, it doesn’t seem to me that the Rolling Stones have changed their sound in the last 75 years*. The Beatles evolved from cheezey boy band to acclaimed musical innovators over a period of only 8 years. If you include the Stones, you include the Beatles.

This little rant is far from being directed only to the designer. It’s more like the thing that finally broke me about this anti-Beatles cult I’ve seen spawning among music appreciators. You know what? Tom Waits did more for Rock than anyone, HOWEVER Tom Waits isn’t rock. He is his own genre, and his stuff influenced most artists who have really created a solid, inovative style. There are pleanty of other unknowns-among-the-philistines musicians who have silently influenced rock over the years. Captain Beefheart, Anton Newcombe, and there are others I’m sure, but I don’t know them.

So that is the major downfall of the design, in my opinion. Other problems include: No Bob Dylan, and yet the inclusion of Jimi. Interesting, since many Jimi songs were written by Dylan. Many of everyone’s songs were written by Dylan because he’s a bit of genius, poor singing voice or not. Same with Leonard Cohen, but that’s not really the point.

I’d chuck Meat Loaf, Jovi, Nirvana (and I’m a fan of Nirvana, a serious fan, not like I’m a Jovi fan), maybe Pearl Jam (I only own Vitalogy, which I’ve heard is NOT the quintessential PJ album), definitely Green Day (even though they were the first rock-like band I got into — they were my gateway band that took me from Celine Dion (my grandmothers influence, I swear!) and Miriah Carey to Nine Inch Nails and The Sex Pistols) and make the list the following (not in correct choronological order because I’m lazy):

1. The Beatles

2. The Rolling Stones

3. Eric Clapton/Cream

4. The Who

5. Jimi Hendrix

6. Led Zeppelin

7. Bob Dylan

8. The Velvet Underground

9. David Bowie

10. Sam Cooke

11. The Kinks

12. Queen

13. Aerosmith

14. VanHalen

15. U2

16. Def Leopard

17. Guns’N'Roses

18. Fleetwood Mac

19. Pearl Jam

20. Radiohead

And Rock died for a little while with Radiohead, and was revived by “the” bands like The Strokes. I wouldn’t include bands like the Strokes just because there is no proof that they have changed rock.

Okay, I left off the Red Hot Chili Peppers for personal reasons. The reason being I hate the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I’m open to any debate as to why they changed the directon of music.
*I’ve done some Stones research on Wikipedia, clearly the greatest source of information ever, and the biography says they have dabbled in generes from blues (I believe it) to raggae (I don’t like raggae. This was confirmed yesterday when “Raggae Lunch” turned into “Raggae Afternoon” at the bakery. After 6 hours of raggae, I know am sure I don’t like raggae). If there is a Stones album out there that equals the diversity on the White Album, I’d love it for my birthday. Or my unbirthday.

The Holiday Feast

My parents had always kept me from my extended family.   Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it was intentional, or at least maliciously.  Father’s side was very dysfunctional and conservative, and felt just as negatively about us as we did for them.  Mother’s side was just out of the way.  We would be down in the area visiting my grandmother, but only on weekends, and rarely found the time to drop in.
Growing up I was thrilled; an only child, and a Virgo at that, I had little interest in having happy family get-togethers with strange people who ask and answer the same twenty questions every year.  I didn’t know these people.  Being a teenager, there was very limited cognitive storage space allocated towards learning the life stories of strangers.  There were more important things to remember, like the lyrics to hundreds of songs.
A little later in life, when my frontal lobes had developed to the point where I’d realized the world did not revolve around me, I started paying attention to other people, became my own reporter in order to really get to know others.  This was an interesting transition for me, since I’d egotistically assumed that every life had been rather similar to mine, and if I remember my own experiences (which I honestly lag at that), then I understood everyone else’s.  Suddenly, it was the other way around: in listening to the experiences of others, I not only may interpret my own, but also be reminded of who I am.  Oh yeah, and I get to know someone else in the process; that’s important too.
Much to my chagrin, I was informed that I would be spending the evening with a cluster of my extended family, and to make matters worse it was a dinner party.  Generally I have no qualms with dinner parties, but the anti-social part of my character seeps out before I reach the car, and I remain fairly closed and longing for home unless I’m handed a bottle of merlot and a funnel.  After feigning ill, I realized I would really have to suck it up and go.
I was a little jealous of my mother’s cousin’s house.  It was old, beautifully kept (they had not painted the interior wood-work which I respected wholeheartedly), and a nice size without being show-y.  The décor was a little too frilly for my taste, but who am I to judge?
Immediately I was bombarded with questions about how well my grandmother was doing, and how school was – at that point I had been single for so long, the questions regarding my romantic life were non-existent.  Suffice to say, the responses were bland as a reflection of the questions.  I was pretty bored after about five minutes, but luckily someone handed me a wine glass.
The dinner conversation was fine, stimulating actually.  One cousin was living in Dubai as a teacher, and her mother made a living as a sculptor, and while I missed what her husband did, I was amused to find he was just an old hippy. Maybe beatnik by the getup he was sporting.  I had no idea these people, my relatives however distant, were actually mildly enjoyable to be around.
Then the children showed up. One daughter, a year or two my junior, is attending college (maybe) and working at a local discount retail store while raising her daughter.  This is not something I’m jealous of (okay, she lives in that house, so I envy her a bit) since I’m disinterested in both local discount retail outlets and childbearing/rearing.
The other daughter is tall, olive skinner, and rather beautiful (which could be why my uncle constantly hits on her, shudder).  This I hated her for, since her look was something I could never pull off.  She does something very interesting for a living, but I honestly don’t remember what it is.  But I do remember my surprise and pang of jealousy.  Aside from her boyfriend (who was not my type, and at the time I was happily with he who was so my type I might have been dating myself), her life seemed rather perfect.  I tried to avoid conversing with her as much as possible and slinked back into the other room with the old folks.
Several large bottles of wine later, as we were all getting to know each other by way of an interesting card game, my mother’s cousin (and the hostess) leaned over to me and queried my love of smoking.  I quietly assured her of the situation, but made it clear my mother knew nothing.  She laughed a little and then reworded her question. Oh, I see.
After searching frantically for a lighter, I found myself outside in -20 weather without a coat or shoes, borrowing flame from the daughter who made me feel like the personification of the fat lesbian.
It felt rather strange, shivering as we were, drunkenly smoking pot, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice our disappearance.  My mother’s cousin explained to me that her family was “not like other families,” which was beginning to become clear.  Sure I’d met my share of mother’s who smoked pot with their daughters or sons, but I’d never done it myself, nor had I done it with someone so close to my own family.  I’d never smoked a cigarette with my brother, but here I was sharing a joint with a woman who could very well be my aunt.  Would be easier if she were, only to avoid having to refer to her as “my mother’s cousin.”
So as usual, when I’ve rejected something based on an assumption (this being that my mother’s family is boring and sucky) I realize that the opposite is reality, and I feel boring and sucky in comparison.  Though I like to think of myself as someone who is open minded, I know that I’ve got a long way to go.  But everyone has something they should improve upon, so that’s okay.

An Open Letter to CATA… Set the mood: Boys on the Docks – Dropkick Murphy’s

Dear Jackasses,

Greetings from your friendly neighbourhood cafe. I believe we are the unfortunate establishment formed beneath your irritating and seemingly useless little business. Perhaps you refer to us as your “meeting room”; unlike most meeting rooms, when you leave after having a two hour meeting during which you occupied two tables (and we have how many? 7) which you’ve left strewn with crumbs, milk droplets, napkins, cutlery and other common cafe remnants, your meeting room seems to miraculously clean itself. Perhaps we should rename our little bitty business “The CATA Magical Meeting Room.”

Interestingly, today you decided to schedule your meeting AFTER we’d closed. Huh. That was a funny thing to do. I would have thought that after 3 years you’d know when we close. That doesn’t seem to be the case. Another funny thing was to ASSUME we had nothing better to do but to ALLOW you to hold your meeting, even though we’d already CLOSED for the day.

Oh CATA. You are a funny bunch. I find it particularly amusing when you order your token scones (and I do mean TOKEN, since we know you don’t actually EAT the scones, rather just buy them in order to say you’re a customer), you scurry away to order your coffee, then scurry back to your table, as though you truly believe deep down in your tiny, ignorant hearts that we offer TABLE SERVICE. Hilarity ensues when CATA is in the house, eh?

Do you remember that time we did up a catering for you and you called down to have us come upstairs and collect the serving-ware? And just as I was walking up the stairs, the very CATA employee who had called down was just leaving the building? And the funny thing was that she didn’t have anything in her hands! Neither did her fellow co-worker! Ha! Hahahahahaha!

Well CATA, here’s thanks to you for treating myself and my heathen co-workers like total shit every single day, despite the fact that we let you run a tab, that my boss helped you out last winter when you were too stupid to fix the rads in your creepy little offices, cater your meetings even when you order at the last minute, say nothing when you take up a table for the second or third time in a day since you’d “already had a coffee” from us.  Thanks for never noticing the tip jar. And thanks for being our “best customers” as you worded it so nicely to one of your over-charged clients.

Now I don’t like to be demanding, but to be perfectly honest, even though we clearly owe you many thanks, please consider that you may owe us thanks as well. For not chucking scones at the back of your ungreatful heads as you head out the door.

Cheers,

.megan.