Feel like I am handing in my homework at the last minute. Drove Kelowna to Vancouver and currently shoveling tequila down my throat before the Jay-Z, Justin Timberlake ‘Legends of Summer’ concert. Toodles bitches!
Yes, you did read that right. You didn’t see that coming did you? That’s because I’m complex. I remember seeing this video for the first time, about twenty years ago, and I thought it was pretty goddamn fantastic. A young Keanu Reeves and a non-boozy Paula condensing “Rebel Without A Cause” in less than five minutes, can’t get any better. In revisiting this song, it’s been stuck in my head ever since. You’re welcome.
This was my husband’s request. This appears in an episode of “Family Guy“, and it’s such a trip, one minute Peter Griffin is being a fat bastard and then…this is happening. Nothing has been this confusing since that one time when drunkenly watching an extended version of “Pretty Woman” at 3am. Not realizing that it was uncut, I though that I had slipped into an alternative “Pretty Woman” universe. Anyhoo…enjoy! x
Thus far, the holiday has been simply divine. The blogging break is so very necessary, (though I know the fans may be unimpressed by this hiatus). I ran into one of my biggest supporters last night at the opening night party of Project X’s X-Fest, and he scoffed…scoffed at using sad little music videos as a way of temporarily replacing my daily essay. I explained that I wanted people to know that they could still come to my website and have a five-minute break. To which he grumbled something about “why couldn’t I have just written a dozen or so extra pieces to post for while I was away?”
Dušan, you are such an awesome friend, thanks for all the enthusiasm and support, and thanks for missing my blog entries already. But this is my suggestion for you. When I just can’t take it anymore, I have no choice but to drive into an abandoned warehouse and just dance like there’s no tomorrow. That’s just another thing I have in common with Kevin Bacon. There’s not a single thing I don’t love about this famous scene from the 1984 dance classic. And I hope it makes you smile.
I have such a soft spot for this song, it’s sparkly and sunny and makes me feel like a better day is just around the corner. Strange and sweet video.
I only wish I could rock big hair like that. I love the style, the urban twist on this famous family and their infamous tragedy. PS-Those are Jackie Kennedy‘s words that LDR is speaking at the end.
Okay folks, even though I will still be posting videos and photographs on a daily basis, this will be my last official blog posting until after August long weekend.
I was expecting this. The droves of hysterical fans, screaming, crying, wailing, begging me not to stop blogging.
Okay, dry your eyes, and pull yourself together. People are looking and this is getting embarrassing. Listen, I hear you, I’m this strange fusion of James Joyce and Danielle Steel. And you are one of a very enthusiastic dozen or so people that…as far as my blog is concerned…you just can’t get enough. And I want to be here, dropping hilarious anecdotes like Dr Dre lays down tracks (is that still a contemporary reference?). But Mummy’s tired and she needs a break.
“Girls, I can’t play right now, I’m just talking about quietly resenting you”.
I think about where I was when I started this project. By the time summer ends I will have been at it for six months. With the exception of a handful of “too tired/hungover/busy to write, here’s a picture of a pin up girl doing….something”. I have written every single day since the 1st of March.
Since that day I’ve written over 150 pieces. And if I haven’t made it abundantly clear, after years of writer’s block, this is a pretty fabulous feat. Recently, my friend Sheanna came round with tarot cards, she asked what I wanted to focus on. “The writing, of course”. Is this something that will happen for me? Am I wasting my time? And of course, the cards reveled that there is some kind of mystical blockage getting in the way of success. And that I’ve planted seeds, but the harvest has not happened yet. But what really hit me was that one of the cards suggested that I don’t celebrate enough. I need to give myself a little more credit, and appreciate every “like”, every comment, every bit of positive feedback. I’m terrible for thinking “I’ll be happy when…”. That’s a dangerous belief. Why not be happy right now? There are times when I’ve sought validation, as if I need an external force to justify my direction in life. In fact, it was not being long-listed for that writing competition when my life took a turn. It was not directly connected, but after that day, my job changed, and my life opened up. I had this month or so of freedom. I took casual work, which led to actual jobs. I took on a social media project, and it has been such a satisfying undertaking. Doors have opened, and I’ve walked through them.
And so, I’m trying not to worry so much. Note the italics here. I fuck it up as often as I get it right. But it’s fair to say that this blog has been a lifeline for me. And now, after over 9000 views in over 50 countries, I am going to celebrate that. Am I counting the one time someone in Nicaragua had a gander? Yes. Because I need to celebrate any one, any where reading my pieces. Am I well-paid? Not really. Am I writing while wearing a magnificent fur coat? No. Am I happy? Most of the time, yes. I’m actually amazed how life can sort of evict you from your circumstance. I was in a job that made me so unhappy, that I had never-ending heartburn, an unsightly stress rash, and a soul that was crying out for change. And then, circumstances changed, and I could just walk away. And it was only was the stress was slowly released, like air out of a balloon, that I realized just how unhappy I was. And that’s no way to live.
But there’s something about my temperament that wants me to be stressed. And I’ve got to work on that. I’m pretty famous for stressing hard before a holiday, trying to accomplish everything before the break, so I can be truly relaxed. But by the time to clock ticks to the holiday hour, I am so wound up, it’s like trying to untie an impossible knot. And I don’t want that either. So, there’s a bit of meditation to do on this break. How I’d like to proceed with my life. How I’d like to adjust my attitude. How I’d like to be just a little bit better than I am right now. And then I’d like to come back to this place and share with you all I have learned in the time I spent away.
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This is not good. I am sitting in my office, coffee cold, this sad little banana that’s been sort of half-finished, unpeeled and partially ravaged, and lying on the desk. I only ate it because they were talking about skipping breakfast leading to heart disease on the CBC. I’m feeling like a kid right before summer holiday. I keep looking out the window, daydreaming about haircuts, pedicures and far off destinations.
I need to be focused, creative, organized…hmmm, what color would I get on my toes? Surely no self-respecting woman goes on holiday without a little sprucing up. And I could use it…I’d love it if the Wash & Brush Up Company from “The Wizard of Oz” could give me a proper once over.
This is a want, not a need. I need to write, I want a pedicure. I also want a latte, a million dollars and a massage from my pool boy Pedro. Now that I’ve written a solid sentence, let’s look out that window again shall we?
Let’s look over notes… that will inspire me. I do a good shorthand. Sometimes I can’t even decipher my own stuff. “Dancers”, underlined. What the hell does that mean? Just relax…just let it flow, you are a writer, the people–they need you. Nose to the grindstone, fingers to the keyboard. Looking wistful as I think up my magnificent thoughts.
I’ve got so much to do, and time is running short. So I should definitely spend two hours not blogging, and exchanging double entendres over instant messaging with my Improv Group. Look at this to-do list, when will this be done? There’s no time like the present…but first, lets read about the new Royal Baby, muck around on Twitter, and search for pictures of other people hard at work.
I’m just noticing now that there is a mouse scaling this lovely table cloth, and that woman is moments away from absolutely losing her shit. Look at her, so focused on her book with her fancy little breakfast. Those flowers are going to go flying. Ah, I should look for a picture of that.
Oh, I’m sorry Sister, am I boring you? Is my lack of cohesive theme, my lack of focus exhausting? You should try living in my head for an hour or two, it is a scary, scattered place.
But you know what? I’m going for that pedicure, and I might even slap on a manicure on that as well. You only live once right? Twice if you are James Bond. After all, I can’t very well face the world like the star that I am, with my fingers and toes unpainted? That just wouldn’t do.
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Occasionally, if I really want to splash out and treat myself, I buy a magazine. Because I am terminally frugal, I usually go for the ‘three for ten deal’ at Walmart. We’re stocking up on supplies, and as it always does, my patience for this store runs paper thin before I’ve even said hello to the greeter. Ben is lingering over belts, and I decide to do my own lingering over my precious 3-4-10. Sadly, every cover has Glee’s Cory Monteith on it. And I’m of two minds about that. For one, I do find the whole scenario devastating and fascinating. I mean, you couldn’t write a tragedy better. And that’s the other thing, it really does make me so sad. So there I stand, with little options otherwise. Lesser quality magazines feature Angelina Jolie proclaiming that she was pregnant with twins, another one with the Kardashian’s on “Who Cares?” magazine, and a National Enquirer with a rather tired looking Regis Philbin on the front. And so, I chose my three, two of which have Monteith on the cover. (Thank God Kate Middleton has had her baby, that will cleanse the pop-culture palette).
I was strangely soothed by all the other celebrity goss out there–beautiful people recommending beautiful products, with beautiful children, on beautiful holidays. George Clooney is single again, Justin Bieber is being a little dick head, Amanda Bynes is blowing her fortune on cocaine and bad wigs. All is right in the world. I especially enjoyed a special on celebrity homes, where all these smug B-list bastards can show off all their awesome shit. My favorite was the Dita Von Teese article. As you can imagine, she has some pretty amazing possessions.
She has beautiful vintage furniture, and a bizarre taxidermy obsession. She turned multiple bedrooms into spectacular closets filled with costumes, shoes, lingerie, and there’s a whole room dedicated to hats (which to me, is really a reason to never have children). “Sure, someone could carry on the lineage…but then again, I wouldn’t get my hat room”
She is such a glamorous icon, a burlesque queen, the modern-day equivalent of a golden age movie star.
Many of the most beloved icons from yesteryear are remembered in part of their marriages or affairs. Marilyn Monroe with DiMaggio, Miller and that other guy, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Liz Taylor and everybody. As for Von Teese, she spent the better part of a decade shacked up with none other that Marilyn Manson.
I’m assuming this was at a costume party, but that is a seriously disturbing looking fellow. I have always wondered what the attraction was, if she would gaze at him from across a crowded room and think–“Lucky me, I get to go home with that“.
Last night, wide awake, and lying next to my gently snoring husband, I think about Dita Von Teese, what that hat room must look like. Eventually I give up on trying to sleep, and head into the office. I write a few notes about this topic, and then proceed to look up pictures of Dita and Marilyn. Which is not the greatest idea at 1130pm. Marilyn Manson…is not someone I enjoy.
I came of age in the advent of this particular chapter of goth-culture… circa 1996 with Antichrist Superstar. Marilyn Manson burst creepily onto the scene, and just bled all over the place. Parents were concerned about his presence, his influence. He was being banned and censored, which made the fans love him even more. Rumors flew about him killing animals onstage, and removing his ribs so he could perform fellatio on himself. Which makes no sense to me, why would you want to suck your own dick? If you have the money to have elective rib removal surgery, couldn’t you just hire someone who likes going down on freaky dudes…(and possibly be into doing a little laundry and light dusting)? In high school Marilyn Manson was such a revelation and there was a definite social pocket of teenagers that jumped on that bandwagon. Personally, he scared the hell out of me. But then again, if Manson was an 11 on the hard rock scale, I was a 1.5. I was listening to ABBA, Mamas & the Papas and the Bee Gees non-ironically. I had pictures of Audrey Hepburn in my bedroom. I was not in his demographic. Simply put, going to a Marilyn Manson concert would be my version of hell on earth, I would rather be swarmed by a pack of flying monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz”, than listen “Beautiful People” in a packed stadium of Satanic looking freaky-deeks. And you just know that they would do weird things with strobe lights…no thank you. The fine folks behind the film “Burlesque” actually snuck a sample of that song into the soundtrack; even in a different incarnation I can not bare it. You’re just never going to find me at a fan club meeting, and that’s all there is to it.
This morning, as I’m working on my social media project, looking for pictures of Charlie Brown and the Fantastic Mr Fox, I keep running into Marilyn Manson. And it always gives my heart a little flip. I wonder if ever he came around the corner and startled the crap out of Dita. “Oh my god, Marilyn, why the face?’ I read that when Tim Burton was casting for “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, Manson expressed interest in playing Willy Wonka. That’s a long fucking way from Gene Wilder isn’t it? Even Johnny Depp was too creepy (who allegedly based his character on Micheal Jackson, and Manson–the two Godfathers of creepy musicians). Even Tim Burton, who makes his own distributing imprints on the world (don’t even talk to me about “The Nightmare Before Christmas) must have been like–no, Marilyn, that’s even too fucked up by my standards. What’s worse, I don’t know which way is scarier, Marilyn Manson with makeup….
Or just plain ole Brain Warner…(cute koala though).
Yes, of course, never judge a book by it’s cover. It’s just…what a terrifying cover. In my research about these two former lovebirds–who were both raised in middle America, living lives through audacious, controversial theatrical alter egos. He tried to get her for a music video, their schedules clashed, but on his 32nd birthday, she showed up with a bottle of absinthe (and a stunning outfit, I’d imagine). And the rest, as they say, is history.
They were together for five years, got married in a civil ceremony, before having a lavish affair at some castle in Ireland.
And a year after that, Dita moved out of their home on Christmas Eve. She never publicly stated what had happened (cough-cough-Evan Rachel Wood), but that it was bad enough to call a moving company the day before Christmas.
And, that’s all there is to it, the marriage ended and she never said exactly why. But there is enough speculation that Dita could hang up her props, lingerie and boobie tassels, and just be plain old Heather Sweet; whereas between the drugs and the impressionable young female fans, Brian had a much harder time hanging up his Manson cap. Von Teese lamented her divorce, and claimed that despite their appearances, they were a traditional couple, who valued the institution of marriage. She intended for the relationship to last forever. A Von Teese source said that–she just wanted to be at home on the couch with the dog with Marilyn Manson. And I can’t imagine him just fresh faced, kicking back in his sweatpants and slippers.
As for Marilyn, I’ll be happy when he’s no longer haunting my image files. I did come across more recent photos, and it looks like he has a sort of–Gothic fat Elvis thing, and it’s just not a great look.
So, Miss Dita with her many endorsements, is clearly the winner in this break-up face off. She was classy dame that didn’t point fingers or name names. She didn’t take a red cent of Manson’s money either. But I wonder, if she ever misses him stealing her eyeliner, sneaking her corsets and pantyhose, or getting his red lipstick over her alabaster complexion after a passionate smooch in the kitchen. Or if she now wonders what the hell she was thinking, and is happy to be back in the company of only the most beautiful people.
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This past weekend has been chore-filled, and we have had a very productive couple of days. We are like proper grown-ups, driving around in a spanking clean car with a full tank of gas. My office is in good order, all loose papers have been filed, or tossed in the bin. Everything has been dusted, everything has been organized. Both Ben and I bought new clothes, and then stripped our closets bare, making enormous, intimidating piles. There is always that moment, in the organizational process, when you think: why the fuck did I do this to myself? And then you wonder how long you could live amongst the mountains you made. I pushed onward, and got my purge on. And now my closet looks so organized, so clean…and I know in my heart that it will last approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. But, I can’t think about failure now, as I gaze into the neat, color coded closet. This space represents how I’d like to be: ordered, prepared, organized.
By the end of Sunday evening, with the last load of wash shimmying in the spin cycle, I am feeling very happy. I love to go on holiday knowing that dishes are washed, bills are paid, and the check-list has been ticked off. It reminds me a bit of one of the greatest feelings ever–that ‘back to school’ feeling. I love that sense of preparedness, the idea of a fresh start.
When growing up, my mother would take the last week of summer and try to resurrect some semblance of a school-year routine. This meant lying awake in a not-dark room, while other children in the trailer park rode their bikes round and round the never-ending circular street. Not that I would have been out there playing, even when I was a child, I wasn’t a kid.
But still, just knowing that others my age were out gallivanting outdoors, made me not want to be in bed. Not able to sleep I’d daydream about the upcoming school year. In my mind I would piece together my ultimate ‘first day of school outfit, where you could really make a definitive statement about who you wanted to be this year.
Who I was, what I wanted to be, and how I wanted to be perceived was never an easy mix. I liked to imagine that I would be welcomed, accepted, popular; be a part of a group, or be an object of affection for pre-pubescent boys. Lying there in the lit bedroom, anything was possible. The carefully selected outfit hung from the door-knob. New shoes lined up nicely, the school bag filled with crayons, pencils, erasers, blank sheets of paper. Of course, that wouldn’t last long, that level of neatness. Even as a neurotic, tabloid-reading, less-than popular child, I didn’t always do myself a solid, and finish my homework or keep my room clean. The foundation of success is organization, and having the confidence in knowing where everything in your life is. I didn’t really learn that until my thirties. I wanted to be that person, bright and shiny, without fault, without mistakes, but I kept tripping over myself…all the way until my high-school graduation. Still, there was that promise, before the season actually began, when anything was possible, and you would get everything right.
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