See Emily Play

Slip Sliding Away

2012-01-17T22:06:00.001-05:00

These are the very words she uses to describe her life
She said a good day ain't got no rain
She said a bad day is when I lie in the bed
And I think of things that might have been
~ Paul Simon (Slip Sliding Away)

Nobody understands just how bad the situation really is sometimes. It just doesn't end. The pain is just always there, like an elephant in the room that not one other person can see. When it's riled, and it feels like the explosion of tears will finally make their appearance in the worst way possible, it's truly a miracle how I'm able to make it through the night sometimes.

But my hole just keeps getting deeper, and a clear solution just won't present itself. I wander home, too tired to cry, and spend hours just trying to understand why I just can't heal.

--

It finally happened, just over a month ago - I opened up to Ian about my feelings.

I want to say I have no regrets doing it, regardless of how the reaction was not in my favour. Hell, Ian appreciated that I have the ability to step up to the plate like I did. He knows what rejection feels like, and he admired my courage. He really wanted to stay my friend. He values my friendship just as much as I his, and he didn't want to loose me as a friend.

I came back to my apartment with my head high that I did possess the skill and the guts to be honest; but then the morning came, and with it, the tears and a fresh round of pain.

Despite the brave face, so many factors flooding my being. At first, I thought it to be the natural release of rejection. I thought I knew what rejection felt like after all these years, but, deeper reflection figured out it wasn't rejection I knew, it was the sting of being ignored by every decent guy that's ever entered my life. Never has there actually been someone so eligible in my presence, so never have I had a reason to speak up.

But it was the series of events that happened next caused one of the most painful Christmas seasons I've had in a while.

When I picked up to call Chris during work hours the day after, it wasn't the first time I felt my pattern of free contact to him felt so completely unfair to him. I felt guilty for doing it, but what could I do? As much as I hate to admit it, my network of support is somewhat limited. Because Ian so close to Nick and Matt, and I didn't want to run the risk of them running straight to the man I wanted to impress, they don't know the half of the battle that's been raging for two years now. I'm still learning to trust the few girlfriends I have here in Ottawa - not saying that they're fine women, it's just when the guy friends have proven to last longer than 90% of all the girlfriends, minor trust issues rear their ugly head.

So I call Chris - who, as usual, was on guard for me. From the moment I began having problems when we lived together, he's made it so clear I can go to him for everything and he's kept to his word. He's checked up on me when it's clear I'm not coping with things, he's let me talk about random things that make me happy - Hell, sometimes I think he's the only one who somewhat understands why I'm the Beatle fan that I am - he's just there. He doesn't talk over me, he doesn't make me feel like I'm being judged, and I can't for the life of me figure out why he does it for me. I feel guilty for using him, when it's so clear to me that he has his own fight to win. Months ago, I used to be able to convince him to come see me, or convince him that I needed to speak to him face to face, but in the later half of the year, talking to him face to face became so much of a luxury. But he was still there, becoming the closest thing to a girlfriend I currently have within Ottawa city limits. In a time when folks favour text to talking on a phone, our conversations extend for an hour. The panic attacks I was getting over my general loneliness, the school panics, the panics over having a stupid reason to panic, he's heard most of them by now. He has yet to actually see me cry face to face, but god knows he's heard me cry. And on this particular night, he became recipient of the aftermath of my stupid, stupid admission. He sat there, he got me through it, all while he was fielding calls from his dad.

When I hung up the phone, in my all my warped wisdom, something clicked that the main reason it took me so fucking long to just say something to Ian, was because I was just so afraid of hurting Chris to the core. There were chances to talk to Ian months ago, but every time I go up to talk to him, it usually ended up being a conversation about how worried about Chris I was after what I perceived as worrying behaviour. I refrained from saying anything because I needed to make sure Chris was OK. Truth be completely told, the only thing that spawned my completely sudden admission to Ian was the fact that I feared that I needed to resolve those feelings before I resolved feelings at home over Christmas. It wasn't because Chris gave some kind of blessing. I just wanted to get it over with to impress someone I didn't end up seeing while I was at home and it backfired on so may levels.

I got through the weekend after the fact, just barely. I hung out with everyone as usual, but the panic attack I had sitting in front of the man I wanted for myself, and the man I felt I hurt so deeply, was scarily similar to the panic attacks I used to get around Adam. But, where as Adam was a douchebag who was loud and obnoxious when I tried to be "friends," kudos goes to Ian for allowing me avoid his eyes the entire night and speaking softly to me when he tried to make conversation - which I subsequently kept to a minimum.

Chris...well, Chris was drunk that night. He was one of the first who made it clear to the room that I just wasn't talkative and couldn't break out of what was bothering me. Cue another round of worrying on top of the panic of having another friend fall into the same association as a douchebag ex-boyfriend.

The following Monday, my sister Molly arrived for a week's stay, so I decided to have a mini-Christmas dinner for my friends. I felt good that night, and was even able to have a conversation with Ian. When my friends and I parted ways for the night, I went about the business with my sister. For the next few days, I didn't think anything of what was possibly going on in the upper reaches of my apartment complex, until the next day when I texted Chris to see if I could come up and grab my DVD binder he had requested he browse. My sister and I wanted to watch something in there, and I thought it would be the only chance I'd get before Christmas weekend to get it, but he was adamant about not letting us up there. More worry, and it would plague me the next day as Molly and I wandered through the streets of Old Montreal - or at least until I got a text from Chris apologizing for the seemingly abrupt behaviour. We agreed my sister and I could visit briefly when we got home from Montreal to grab the binder before we parted ways for Christmas.

During the brief, late night visit, Chris suggested something that actually got me excited for the first time in weeks: he mentioned that his family was visiting and staying at the Chateau Laurier - it would be nice if we got together for a late night Christmas drink before I boarded the train for Sarnia on Saturday.

For the first time in at least a week, I felt relieved. Chris was OK, there was a chance for me to be honest with my feelings towards him and it was totally going to take place in one of the grandest hotels in all of Canada. Maybe this was the start of something that was finally right - it kind of felt like the puzzle pieces were coming together.

But we couldn't make it happen before Christmas, nor could we make anything happen when I got back and he was still in Ottawa for a few days before heading to Peterborough. He said he try to make it back here for New Year's, but nothing happened, and I was left to deal with another panic attack alone in a crowd as I rang in 2012.

As the week progress, other things came to light about the holiday. I agreed to look after a rabbit for a friend of Bob's - who just happened to meet a very drunk Chris after he left my apartment the night I served dinner. She said he tried to get her drunk enough to take it to the next level, but everyone stopped him. Although shaken at the idea that he'd actually try to pull something like that, on a whim, I mentioned that I understand what was happening, but I still had a growing "thing" for him. As her rabbit sits in my apartment, she sends me periodic texts that I should talk to him. She doesn't think he's a bad person - it's just that she just has a boyfriend now. She thinks that I have dibs.

It eased my mind a bit, but it wasn't enough for me to starting thinking I'm a completely horrible person and the biggest fucking idiot on the planet. I feel like I'm playing everyone, like I'm turning into trashy reality show fodder. I can't make up my mind, my sexual frustration is at an all-time high, and I'm almost to the point where I'm ready to give up all my morals for the chance to feel what I perceive as normal for a woman my age. You know, as socially accepted as possible, with at least one guy who was more than happy to corrupt her in ways she didn't know she could be corrupted. Instead I'm becoming completely and utterly desperate for something, and my guard is weakening. In my eyes, I'm no better than a reality show whore...

...and naturally, I texted Chris. He's wondered what would bring up the "horrible person" line of questioning. I responded with the very truthful response that my reasons were best kept to face to face, or at least essay - like I've ended up doing in this entry.

A harsh reality brought my situation to a peak this weekend. I hung out with everyone, as usual. If there's one thing I just cannot loose is the sense of normality I get from being surrounded by Ian, Chris, Matt and Nick. Not to mention, by making sure keep exposing myself to them - especially Ian - I'm diligently making sure I conquer the panic and I don't fall down the same dark road the experience with Adam sent me down. After the panic attacks I experienced after Adam, I shut everyone out, and retreated to my parents' cold basement for four years with little interaction beyond my family, my co-workers, and maybe Michelle, the only friend who wanted something to do with me. The difference this time is that I'd be retreating to a cold, third floor apartment, and it will just be co-workers and fellow students.

I arrived late due to slow mobile network text delivery issues, everyone, including Chris, was drunk/inebriated. They have a tendency to use Friday as their night to get messed up, which actually pisses me off because I work Saturdays and can't join them, but I deal and show up because my week isn't complete without seeing them. I was having a OK time, just catching up with everyone, letting them know what lies ahead at school - everything from drag queen bingo to press passes.

That's when Chris brought it up - he was reconnecting with an old friend. She'd recently broken up with her boyfriend, and he always had a thing for her.

--

The distress as caused me to go into this daze. I'm functioning, I even played a board game with everyone last night with this completely fake smile on my face.

There are so many who would love to sit me down, and lecture me on how natural this all is, how all I need to do is be patient because the right man will come, and this will all work out. Every ounce of me knows just to keep breathing and praying because one of these days, I will break free.

But even when I look around at my friends, my life path, and my way of life, I can't see one sign that I'm on the right track. Yes, I'm surrounded by people who at least respect me and like me enough not to completely ignore me. I'm finally in a career path that looks completely promising, and for all intensive purposes, I look like I'm surviving. On the flip side, my energy is always shot, I can sleep for 12 hours straight if I want - I come home from work/school, and a seemingly innocent nap turns into my night's sleep. I can't get out of bed on Sundays at all. I just kind of stay there, surfing the Internet, and watching CBC News Network continuously. (Given the state of the world, I'm fairly certain this alone is not in anyway good for my mental health.) I'm not keen on leaving - I don't have curtains up in my apartment and the Ottawa winter hasn't been too forgiving these past few weeks. I want nothing to do with anybody, but I cannot allow myself to write-off any opportunity to socialize.

I can't leave any detail about my being to rest, I'm nitpicking everything. After years of forcibly disallowing myself to have it become an issue in favour of dealing with everything else, even doubts about my appearance have come to light. That's two guys now who didn't respond to light attempts to flirt, and one of those guys shutting the door when I just came out with it; but it's such an angry beehive of issues that I just don't know how to address yet. Everything from the contradiction of being able to buy several reasonable purchases at several retail stores my mom has publicly cried in thinking both myself and herself are to fat to fit in the clothes, to the general observations I make as one woman army in a testosterone filled room. Again, I'm fairly certain the boys can talk blue in the face about how body size and the what not doesn't mater, but I also can't help but realize that the current object of Chris' pursuits is a woman half my size. In fact, she once dated Matt, who has stated openly he likes a women with breasts that are a lovely little handful.

Even at school, my footing is almost completely lost. I'm trying to socialize the best I can, but my head isn't always there; and with the exceptions of a few slip ups in the facade, folks generally don't notice - which is completely dangerous to the idea of forming a career in which networking is key. My first attempt at interviewing just bombed so dearly, and writing has become laboured. How I'm going to remain inspired to keep going through the rest of the semester and beyond is something I have yet to figure out - especially when exciting and potentially game changing opportunities promise at the very least something to look forward to. How I'm going to make it through it, I don't know, but what I do know is that I absolutely need to - the thought of some kind of solid career is a shred of hope I have to protect more than my friendships.

I have absolutely no idea how the Hell I was able to get through this blog entry is completely unknown to me and frankly it's annoying the living shit out of me that I've done it. I mean, all I can ever post to this blog anymore is this absolutely horrid crap about my life, like it's going out of style. I'm ashamed to present it to people, and yet, I still do it, I still put it out there. Out of anything I could be writing and putting my heart and soul into, it's something I'm going to be embarrassed to share. I wish so much I could have come back to this blog to share happy news or to write something that doesn't focus on my fucking problems, but sadly I don't think I have much of a choice. It's the place for me to just lay it out and hope that if it gets read, at least I won't be mistaken in what message it may hold.

I feel guilty and rotten for everything. I'm so sorry and ashamed for how I've been acting, and for the disappointment.

2012 - meet the new year, same as the old year.

Heart in my Throat

2011-08-09T03:34:00.005-04:00

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”
~ C.S. Lewis

It's 2am, on a Tuesday morning. I have to work at 10am. Although hard to admit sometimes (especially when you work for an organization that frowns upon overtime so much they can't give a struggling student the extra time in a day to help pay the rent without feeling completely threatened they need to convert me to a full time employee) it will be a relief to go to work.

This past weekend was one of the loneliest on record for me, and it's ended on an extremely tough note for me to grasp. Not that getting a message on Facebook isn't a common day occurrence in today's social media saturated society. It's just that up until last night, the last one I got from Marie was over two years ago.

It was a simple "How are you doing?" message. Nothing fancy, nothing actually threatening. She just wanted to touch base with me after all these years - and yet, the anxiety is back in full force. It feels like a band aid was ripped off of a cut far too soon. But unlike my past discrepancies in the broken friendship, I know I need to step up to the plate, take it like an adult, and try everything in my power to find peace in the situation.

Yeah, find peace - easier said than done when you're absolutely riddled with enough guilt to last three lifetimes.

As I said in a blog post about a year ago, not a day has gone by where I didn't think about Marie in some capacity. Whether it was a double take with a chick who looked vaguely like her, or the wish that I could invite her to stay at my home in Ottawa so we could attend concerts together, or just missing a feminine input in my male dominated friendships, her memory was always there.

I can't shake a deep guilt for what happened, or for just how much it feels like I haven't actually grown in the two years since we disconnected communication. So much of it revolved around issues I'm struggling with right at this very moment. My sexuality, my insecurities, the depression - if she named it, it's probably still a big issue. I'm almost embarrassed by the idea that she's probably thinking I moved right on with my life, and yet, here I was this weekend, sitting alone in my apartment while the only friends in the city were out of town all at once. I still look the same, I'm still introverted, and I'm a thousand times more timid.

I can't find pride in what I have done, and I don't want to share any of it with her. My brief message letting her know about my journalistic ambitions took me half a day to word - sad when you think this entire blog entry only took me an hour. I don't want to get into detail about the Sloan tours. We could always talk about music, but she was always a bit of what we now call a hipster, and I fear she'll focus on the idea that I've stuck with a band she liked better during their heyday and hates their latest work rather than listen to endless stories I have to tell now. Either that, or she'll be unimpressed and see it as something that's so nerdy at it's core. Forget what I've done, who I've met, the friendships I've forged in the most unlikely way. It's not all that impressive, it never was. The volunteer work I've done feels pathetic too. Forget that I throw all social conventions out the window and just do it out of the shear fun of it, it's what I've been doing my entire life and is absolutely nothing new. The only pride I can see reflected in my volunteerism is the idea that I was able to return to the theatre after years of dealing with the Adam aftermath and even that's tainted with the fact I had to do it completely on my own because Marie bailed on me when I invited her to come with me as I took a crucial step. It may have just been a Matthew Good concert for her, it was the first time I'd walked into the Imperial without panic in three years and I was forced to do it completely alone.

And what about just my current state of mind? As I said, of all the exact moments in my life to reenter, it had to be as I struggle with the depression that's resurfaced along side my want and need to actually put my last piece of innocence behind me once and for all. At it's core, the reason was so lonely this weekend is because I panicked that I couldn't see my boys before they left for their friends' wedding in Peterborough. The only reason I got to talk to Chris H is because I actually had a panic attack over the idea that I haven't seen or hung out with any of them properly in weeks and I became scared that I'm going to loose them if I'm not careful - just like I lost Marie. And it's not just the basic friendships I'm having problems with again, it's now been complicated with the idea of actually stepping back into the dating ring again. Michelle actually wants me to get in touch with Marie again because she knows Marie would have better insight into the internal struggle I'm having with my feelings towards Ian...and others. I don't want to get into it here, but let's just say I fear I'm on the road to doing the number one thing I just didn't want to do: hurt someone very close to me. Michelle can't help me. Chris H can't help me. I'm not bringing anyone else into it. I'm alone, and Marie might be the only person I can go to for proper advice right now, but my trust was shattered long ago when she made it very clear she wasn't prepared to deal with anything surrounding the depression.

As far as I know, the only thing that's changed in two years is the city, and that's what I fear she'll get from any correspondence.

My eyes are so sore right now. I bid goodnight to MSN hours ago in preparation for sleep, but I was sent a reply to my simple update on my life and my mind hasn't stopped racing since. Whenever I get a notice with her name on it, whether it be a message left on my sister's wall or an actual message in my inbox, my heart jumps and becomes lodged in my throat. I want to relax, and just move on with my life, but so much haunts me and my war wages on in darkness. There is no relief, no mater how much I know a light from long ago has returned.

A Debate of Rock and Roll Proportions

2011-07-27T10:54:00.003-04:00

http://www.thewrongsound.com/top-10-singers-who-cant-sing.html

OK, so I found this link on a random music forum today. After reading it, it was a case where I signed up for a membership so I could add my opinion to the growing list. Being the thorough commenter I can be (hence, my easy acceptance into a journalism program), it took me an hour to write.

So rather than putting something so epic to waste, I'm reposting everything I had to say here.

Starting from ten and going down to number one, here goes:

10) Conor Oberst - Don't know who this guy is.

9) Jim Morrison - Completely and fullheartedly DISAGREE. Mr. Morrison should have NEVER been listed here. In fact, to be completely honest, not only do I think he had one of the best voices, I think he had the SEXIEST! His voice sends chills to all the right places (heart, gut, spinal cord, brain cavities I didn't know existed, places where the sun don't shine, etc) and is the number one reason I absolutely adore that band (and it's lead singer!).

8) David Lee Roth - I've just never really been a fan of metal, and it's only been in the past few months I'm starting to recognize what fun bands like Van Halen have to offer. Diamond Dave's voice is not the absolute best in the world, but he's definitely has something to offer and it was never the reason I ignored them in the past.

7) Kurt Cobain - Raw and honest. Cobain definitely did not have the range or never had the opportunity to refine his voice, but it still sends a shock wave straight through to the heart. So what if he couldn't sing like angel? It was a voice that still means so much for a lot of people.

6) Janis Joplin - Nope, not the best in the world, but she gave hope for the girls like me who were ignored in vocal music class because they didn't want to sing like Christina Aguilera and actually wanted to learn music.

5) Johnny Cash - I'll admit, it's definitely not the best in the world. But again, the chills, and again, I don't care how "technically" bad it is.

4) Ashlee Simpson - Finally, something I can agree with this guy on.

3) Ozzy Osbourne - In my exploration of metal, I've actually grown to be quite appreciative of Ozzy's singing, especially when I think of how much better you can understand him when he's singing as opposed to when he's speaking. ;) He's got a wicked set of lungs, and he certainly knows how to bring that extra "umph" to a rock song.

2) Zakk Wylde - I've got friends that would give me some pretty weird looks if I ever admitted this to their face, but I've never actually heard this guy's music - so an assessment I will not give.

1) Bob Dylan - OK, I'll agree with this one. At least you can understand Ozzy when he's singing. I don't hold it against Mr. Dylan though. Those songs are far too profound.

Quickly, a mention of one of the the honourable mentions: Pete Townshend. Yeah, I'll admit, he's not the best vocalist on the planet (especially considering who he's partners with/up against), but never should his voice be reason to even sort of doubt his talent. Of course, I'm being extremely biased in this case. My love for the Who is surpassed by very few select artists and Pete is royalty in my eyes. So what if he can't sing? When the man was my age, he wrote f*cking Tommy. Enough said.

And that's all I wrote for today. ;)

One Text Message

2011-06-25T21:34:00.006-04:00

It's extremely hard for me to really put into words exactly how much of an impact this month has had on the very fabric of my being.

Combine strong emotions with the fact that the urge to actually put it into the words needed to be said under a cloud of suspicion that the wrong folks my read it, and I've got a dangerous dilemma on my hands. But I'm just without another option at this point. I'm that ready to explode. I just pray that it comes out with the same mount of respect I have for everyone in my life right now.

--

A bit of catch up is definitely needed before I continue. I'm slightly ashamed at the fact that the depression that followed the departure from Sun Media just didn't help me in my quest to actually become a little more productive in my writing; but unlike other dry periods, my production level wasn't entirely dormant. First and foremost, I got a new job about a month later. Grant it, it's not the best job in the world and I'm only working part time, but Wal-Mart is better than nothing at all and I really can't complain as I'm working in the Vision Centre - a first ever doctor's office type job, only without decent hours and pay. So I'm working again and money is flowing in, albeit slowly.

My first production with Ottawa Little Theatre was such a relief and success, that I participated in two more productions before the season came to a close. What a wonderfully welcoming and warm organization! Here's hoping I can remain active in the years to come...

...that is, between school work.

That's right, after six years of slogging it out in crap service jobs, I've been accepted into Algonquin College for journalism and I've got an OSAP check on the way to help. It's not the music program I originally wanted, but judging how much dedication I put into anything from a blog entry to a simple email home, and the love affair I have with just about everything Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, I feel it's going to be a perfect fit, and will ultimately land me a job that I'll actually want to do for the rest of my life. As long as I'm doing something I love, I think I'll be OK in life.

Most importantly, I've moved again, this time into a bachelor apartment in Central Ottawa. I wasn't exactly keen on the idea of another move. Moving is one of the absolute most stressful events folks put themselves through, and this was to be my third move in 18 months and my first roommate-less apartment. The stress was sky high for me for a good three months there, but I got through it in tact.

But the stress of the physical move wasn't nearly as draining as the task of bidding a partial goodbye to Nick, (Matt) Pucci, Chris and Ian - the four amazing young men I was so very proud to call my roommates. I say partial because the reality of it is, we all moved into the same building and they're all less than a 30 second elevator ride away. If crazy looks were currency, I would have been a rich woman every time I explained to strangers (especially chicks) how I didn't mind the 24/7 sausagefest. Not that it was a total walk in the park being the clear odd woman out, but my boys were so welcoming, respectful, and that much fun to be around that most of the time I forgot that I was fundamentally different. It's been hard to let go of the idea being able to come home from a supremely hard day of dealing with whatever depression shit came my way to someone who didn't know that just by talking to me about whatever they were doing, they were taking my mind off so much. I love them all so much for their help, and a month into living completely alone, I still don't know what I'm going to do with myself in an empty apartment.

They all taught me so much in their own way, too. From Pucci, I learned that jocks aren't all douschebags. Sadly, bad experiences in school can teach a geek girl things like that and for years I had a slight resentment for guys who even resembled the assholes who picked on me, but Pucci's upstanding values and overall friendly attitude, combined with some playful badgering reminiscent of the mean boys from long ago showed me that if I just let those little moments go along the wayside, than a great friend can be found.

The best conversations with Nick almost always started as a discussion about gaming. For the causal gamer who wanted to explore the activity a little more in depth, it was often an educational experience to have a half hour conversation with Nick. But more importantly, he was more than happy to explain everything I needed to know about Almonte, Ontario; the shared hometown of himself, Matt, Ian, Bob, and Rainey. For someone that grew up surrounded by fields and the best memories involving some of the smallest and picturesque communities in Lambton County, it was so nice to know that I'd found a group of folks who completely understand what it is to love and appreciate these communities no mater how far away you must move to make your living and grow as a person.

With Chris, I learned how to trust a complete stranger. Because he's from Belleville and not Almonte like everyone else, Rainey didn't know him as well as the others and couldn't give me any substantial advice when I asked him about everyone before I moved in. I won't lie, he's a goofball to the core, but the guy is all heart and smiles. From the moment I needed to tell someone about my job and mental situation, he's made it absolutely clear he's there to help - and holy shit has he acted on it. The only reason I got the apartment I did was because he mentioned to the rental agents I am headed back to school for September which meant they could apply me as a student - had he not, I would lived with the initial denial of my application and would have had to have looked elsewhere for a place to live, potentially far from the few people I actually know in town. A strange one, no doubt, but I'm so glad to have Chris on my side.

And then, there's Ian...the man who's slowly but surely teaching me everything I need to understand about courage and the last few lessons I need in patience whether he knows it or not.

--

I know full well what it's like to have a relationship go completely sour and be left trapped seeing the individual almost every day; so when I over heard Ian discuss with someone the idea of being involved with someone he lives with as a roommate and agree with my personal objection to the idea, it was all I needed to keep a tight lip on the matter from everyone in the house until the appropriate time presented itself.

So the only consolation I was able to find in the entire move was the idea of finally being able to open up about my feelings towards Ian and prepare to ask him out.

Everything about Ian is what I want in a man. Casual, but warm and collected, good values, willing to help, a good listener and loyal friend, super smart and intelligent, a computer nerd and gamer with a deep love for a good hockey game and the odd concert...

...a warm smile with a pair of lips to die for, gorgeous eyes (the only ones in the house without a hint of blue!), and a bulky six foot-something build that could totally engulf me in the biggest bear hug imaginable. (Sadly, an important physical attribute for me as it'd be just too weird for me to date someone even remotely as small as me.)

In my eyes, he is perfect.

So it's true folks: I've got a massive crush on Ian; and out of respect for him, myself and the three others we shared living arrangements with, I've kept my mouth shut in regards to the issue. On a couple of occasions, it could have slipped. Pucci has made a couple of high school-esque comments along the lines of "OOOOOOoooooo! Emily likes Ian!", and I'm pretty sure Ian's current roommate (Matthew) Broughton has probably mentioned to everyone at some point that one of them should hook up with me, but even when the comments were made I didn't say a single word. I'm just going to assume I'm either not as discrete as I'd like to be sometimes, or my boys are a thousand times more intelligent than I already give them credit for.

In the month since moving to our new building, I've been severely skirting around the issue of how to initiate conversation with Ian about coffee or whatever; which was annoying the living shit out of Bob, the only person within our circle I felt remotely comfortable asking for advice with the specific topic. I debated everything from sending a Facebook invite, to writing an old fashioned love letter. I wanted to make it somewhat special and unique because that's how I have a tendency to do things, but Bob said something along the lines of being all high school about it or just growing a pair and asking Ian out for a cup of coffee.

With the idea that I was being extremely immature planted firmly into my skull, I began preparations to just be honest with myself and Ian.

I finally found all the courage I needed to take a plunge I haven't taken in seven years.

--

My best friend Michelle was scheduled to come see me the second weekend in June. It would be the first time she was going to see me since moving from Sarnia to Ottawa. I was so excited, as it would be the ultimate reason to celebrate my friends of past and present in one little game night. It was a good weekend to do it too. Free Bif Naked concert, I was also scheduled at Westfest for a few hours which would have given Michelle a ton of time to see what Ottawa has to offer on a community level and I would still have a ton of time to show her around the bigger side of the city, perhaps with my old roommates in tow. All in all, it was something to be truly excited for.

With the pending busy weekend in mind, and a clear opportunity to finally separate Ian from the pack the following week for another free concert, I decided that it was time to own up and at least put the bug in his ear. Should he decide to come with me to the next concert, he would have those couple of weeks to make up his mind. As it just so happened, I'd left a bottle of rum at his apartment the night before - what a perfect excuse to see him and talk to him alone!

I didn't think much of it when I ran into him on the bus on the way to a Sunday matinee at the theatre. He wouldn't let me know where he was going, so I just engaged in some small talk. I still didn't think too much of it when he got off at the corner of Carling and Preston, except the comment "where I'm going is a few blocks up from here" slightly haunted me on and off for the rest of the afternoon.

(For anyone that doesn't know Ottawa, Carling and Preston is about 3 blocks from one of our hospitals.)

While I was sitting in the green room at the theatre, I sent my text, asking if he'd be home later. As the hours went by and no reply came, I began to get nervous. In a moment of weakness, I contacted Chris to see if he was up for a chat. Initially, I didn't want to involve anyone within the immediate circle, as I feared awkwardness and potential hurt that could come along with my pending actions; but I ultimately gave into a need for an inside opinion that would probably be most useful in the situation. I had told Chris I'd been harbouring these feelings for Ian for quite a number of months, and how super scared I'm going to hurt someone deeply. We discussed so many different things surrounding the issue from my past self-esteem issues to how he would feel about the idea of me dating Ian. For the most part, he encouraged it as he understood what it means to take full advantage of something that feels that right, but told me to proceed with some caution. It's extremely hard to tell with Ian when he's truly going through a hard time, as he hides his emotions so well; but much like myself, Chris tries to read his friends' faces as best as he can and was getting the feeling of extreme stress from the fellow I'd just admitting to having a massive crush on. I told him I definitely wasn't particularly ready for anything too serious right off the bat - after seven year dry spell, it's going to be in my best interest to take it slow - it's just Ian is too great of guy that I don't want to kick myself in the ass for letting the opportunity go. I've done it once. I will not let it happen again, especially when I have full control over the situation and I wouldn't be settling for the first guy who showed an inkling interest (something I'm in consistent fear that will happen given my track record of boyfriends and self-esteem issues).

By the end of the conversation, I felt great, I felt confident, I felt like I could take on whatever answer Ian gave me - the only problem was by the end of the night, I had yet to receive a reply to my text. I didn't send another one, as I know that would just add unwanted pressure that could come back to bite me in the ass later. The next day, again nothing. I just figured he wasn't home or didn't have time (you know, being Sunday and having to go to work Monday), and I let it go, hoping I'd get something in my inbox at some point.

I got two messages on Tuesday.

The first message I got was a Facebook notification informing me that after weeks of me calling her in preparation for her arrival, Michelle backed out of her trip to Ottawa. She'd known for quite a number of weeks that she wasn't coming.

The second was from Ian. It wasn't a reply to my text. He wanted to let us know that his mother had died and he wouldn't be around much in the coming week.

--

I haven't talked to Michelle since she tried to call to explain herself, as I became so extremely upset over the idea that my precisely planned weekend had at it's core become unravelled and there was a lot I could have planned in place (including a couple of extra work shifts). Playing tricks like that with me used to be OK when I was in school and not really responsible for very much, but I don't have the time or money to allow specific major plans to go awry anymore. But, in over 20 years of friendship, I've never been this mad with her and I couldn't afford to mope over it; so I felt it was just in my best interest if I put my frustration with her aside until I had more than a few days to figure it out what to say to her.

So instead, in the days to follow, I made a very conscious decision: to forcibly forget about display of disloyalty from one friend and focus on supporting another who clearly needed and deserved my help.

But how does one help someone you were one text message away from confessing everything?

Up until this point, the only funeral type thing I'd ever attended was a small memorial thing for an old neighbour who I hadn't actually seen in years prior to his death. Never have I attended a visitation, nor have I sat through a funeral service; and yet it's was what I prepared myself for in lieu of Michelle's absence.

Sadly, 90% of everything I learned on the weekend surrounding funerals was learned completely haphazardly.

I'd read somewhere online that it would be a nice gesture to bake or cook for your friends after loosing a loved one. I actually spent all of Thursday night after work baking at least three dozen peanut butter cookies with the intent of giving some to Ian and his family for whatever visitation thing they had planned; but as I soon learned from cues from Chris, it wasn't exactly what they do at a funeral home, but I brought them anyway in a lapse of reason only to find out there wasn't a snack table or any opportunity to present my gift.

I also found myself get overly concerned at my appearance only to find myself embarrassed by my efforts. I was the only one in the car that night who actually wore a splash of colour because I don't actually own a black blouse and all of my white blouses were dirty and reserved for work. The Friday of the visitation marked the debut of a pair of stiletto boots I'd bought a few months prior. I felt I had enough practice on them to comfortably wear them out, and if anyone deserved to see me stand tall and strong for them, it's definitely Ian - but my feet just couldn't take the beating. I ended up switching to the spare pair of flip flops I shoved in my purse before leaving (the only smart thing I did all night I think). I felt I was being too loud, wasn't talking about the appropriate topics, and I felt slightly out of place because during the eight months of living with the guys, Ian's mother was the only one I didn't actually meet. The message I left in the card we all signed for him mentioned this in good faith and how I thought that she must have been a great lady to have raised two amazing young men, but every part of my being now regrets writing it because it just felt like too much and alluded too much to the struggle I was trying so hard to forget for Ian's sake. On top of all that, the visitation marked the first time I'd ever stepped foot in this Almonte everyone spoke so fondly of. At least Chris had been out there on at least one other occasion and was somewhat familiar with the area, but I was completely green to everyone and everything surrounding me.

But I would not let my actions or feelings deter my want and need to stand in unison with my friends as Ian mourned - in fact, as the visitation went on, my resolve to be with them for the remainder of the process grew to the point I was willing to put my job at ever so slightly on the line. I ended up calling my co-worker and asking if she'd remain there an hour into my shift the next day. My volunteer shift with Westfest was also successfully postponed with full understanding as to why I had to cancel out. As out of place as I felt, I felt so relieved that it worked out that I could return the next day for the service.

The next day was a little more subdued as I began to figure out some kind of routine, but the stress of figuring out just how my day was going to pan out plagued my actions, but again I spent more time worrying about my appearance than at any point since moving to Ottawa. It needed to be formal, and versatile because I just wouldn't have time to change once I made it to work; so a muted purple blouse, a denim black skirt and tights would have to do. I knew my standard hair gathered into a clip look was just too casual for the occasion, so I forced myself out of bed ridiculously early to straighten my hair. I forced myself into another pair of heals, if not for the idea of standing tall for my friend, but for the fact that my entourage for the day would consist of five people who hit and/or tower over the 6'0 threshold and even the bit of added height made me feel a bit more integrated. All this, even though I knew full well few people were going to actually care. (Well, when I slipped off my heals after the service as we were standing around chatting, Broughton asked “What smells like 4'11?”)

It was all ultimately worth it. Early Saturday morning, we made our way to Clayton, the hamlet outside of Almonte in which Ian grew up. As we made our way out there, I couldn't help but internalize the familiarity of the drive through Lanark County. Grant it, there are a few distinctive physical differences between Eastern and Southern Ontario - specifically the fact that once you leave Ottawa and head immediately west, you're immediately surrounded by forest as opposed to driving for miles in through farmland - but at it's core, driving to Almonte felt like I was heading to Petrolia or even Grand Bend, and the drive to the church in Clayton felt like I was heading to Warwick. When I listen to Nick and Pucci go on about Almonte, it's not hard to hear the fond memories and love they have for their hometown, and judging by how beautiful Almonte and Clayton turned out to be, it doesn't take long before I started longing for a crop tour through my own Lambton County. The service was held in one of the smallest churches I've ever entered on what turned out to be a lovely June morning. Just one of those small, quaint, county churches that barely fit everyone who wanted to attend the service and actually kind of make me want to start going to church (but ultimately I won't because I don't always feel comfortable participating in organized religion). The only thing that made the service the utmost in perfect was knowing just how sombre the occasion was, but looking back on it, it's such a footnote.

Just knowing that I was there to support my friends - a lot of which knew Mrs. Armstrong personally - as they prepared to support one of their on as he continues through life made it one of the most rewarding experiences I've ever shared with my friends.

--

In an attempt to keep my need for him subdued at the funeral, I made sure to look at the positive side to what I actually witnessed. I admired just how stoic and strong he was throughout the two days we saw him. He made it known that he was grateful for our support. He smiled and looked relaxed when he was with us, which meant the world for me to see. I took comfort in knowing at least three quarters of the church was made up of his extended family. If he never feels comfortable coming to me for any reason what so ever, at least I know he has a strong network of support.

Despite it all however, no mater how much I wanted to let it all go for the sake of everyone around me, I just couldn't leave my feelings for Ian in back in Ottawa. My heart broke in half for him and always in the back of my mind was the urge to just go and hold his hand as he sat through what had to have been one of the worst days of his life; but I knew full well that it was beyond inappropriate for me to even think of such a thing.

It's probably horrible for me to say this, but part of me is thankful that I'm so used to hiding my deepest pain because I need to do it once more. Little does anyone know just how used to it I've gotten over the past eight months or so. When I first met the group when I moved to Ottawa, I thought Ian was by far the best looking - and then for Halloween last year he went dressed in this Jedi robe (or something), a dress shirt and black slacks. Grant it, it was sloppy, but it was the first time I'd seen any of them in formal wear, and holy fuck was I smitten. I've been living with those butterflies ever since - or very much the majority of the time we occupied neighbouring rooms at the house.

Why I actually allowed the feelings for Ian to develop like they did is something I'll never be able to forgive myself for. The pain I've inflicted on myself was at par with anything after Adam left me. Feelings of loneliness, and worthlessness with virtually no outlet for the tension. I couldn't go to Chris, Nick or Pucci, they where too close to the situation. I tried opening up to Michelle and Chris back home, but it felt like I was venting more than actually solving the problem. I finally opened up to Bob and eventually my roommate Chris, but it was only after I'd eased myself into the idea that I needed to do SOMETHING.

Worst of all, I couldn't go to Ian; who's always maintained after the Sun Media debacle that I could go to him to chat if needed. I consciously didn't take him up on the offer because I was so scared the depression talk would claim another friend and ruin my chances of being with him. Instead, I took a very shy approach to interacting with him, and I don't think I could have helped it either. I'm fairly certain natural female instincts to attract males were present in most of my interactions with him, and I became quite shy and reserved in my attempt to impress - no doubt I may have come off as cold and untrusting when all it was stupid butterflies in my stomach. Now, worse than the idea I totally wrote someone very valuable off, how can I expect him to want to get to know me better when I'd been that shifty towards him?

Seeing him with his family put my mind at some ease. At least he'll always be loved by someone.

It just may not ever be by me.

--

I've gone back to keeping my mouth firmly shut, which has only caused me so much more harm than it's ever before.

In the weeks since the funeral, I've tried to keep up to date with my former roommates and our network of extended friends as best as possible, including Ian who returned to Ottawa by the weekend following the funeral. I guess part of me figures if I could keep some kind of similar social regiment to my time living with them, the pain would be lessened.

Not going to lie, it hasn't been easy. I take for granted their hints of wanting to try something new, and so often find myself on my own for so many of the activities I extend invitations for. There were free concerts across the street from my apartment that I was barely able to coax Nick out to see, and even then he arrived late and was home before I had a chance to find him. This weekend is Ribfest, something I thought everyone wanted to attend, but alas if money isn't the factor, they'd made prior plans. Next week I won't be able to hang out with them at all - I've made plans with Rainey and Maggie. I want to include everyone – sort of a mini-celebration of all the people who are just so important to me right now – but judging from everyone's separate opinions on the obvious activity, it's so much of a safe bet that nobody will want to make the trek to Kanata on Canada Day that I'm not even going to try.

I haven't opened up to Chris at all. In fact, if I actually decide to share this blog entry with him – which will be a first among my roommates – it may be the first time he'll completely understand the pain I'm in right now. Talking with him just before Ian's mom passed only really scratched the surface of what really is going through my head, and seeing how my plan just went so horribly wrong, I just decided to try and deal with this on my own; especially since I fear everything I'm currently writing down in this word document will come out of his mouth. Not that it would be a bad thing, it's just that I'm already telling myself I need to be patient and put Ian first, and I don't need to hear it twice.

I really don't want to inconvenience anyone at a time like this, and I know the focus should never be on me at a time like this, but holy fuck am I failing so miserably this.

Here I was hoping at the very, very least, was for an opportunity to learn what it's like to be in a relationship again. It may not had been permanent, but it would have been a start and it would be with someone I truly have feelings for; and hey, I could have been rid of that little curse that I have absolutely no use for called virginity. That's got to be the toughest pill to swallow, yet again. I'm in firm belief that all these religions that strictly forbid sex before marriage are fucking psycho. This perpetual state of sexual limbo just cannot be healthy in any capacity. It's one thing to deal with my work depression – all I really need to do is get on the job bank website and send out resumes and I start to feel an ounce better – but there is just no safe cure for the frustration and loneliness I deal with being chaste. Buy a vibrator? Been there, done that, got old. Get online and find a fuck buddy? Uh, gross no. After 26 summers of putting up with the paralyzing emotional pain of being this alone, there's no way I'm going to give it away to someone who just doesn't deserve it.

That, and my brain is not exactly wired to resist a full on attachment to another human being. The level of loyalty I'm capable of providing is every bit of a curse as my sexual handicap. It's been almost two years since I last spoke with Marie, I'm still not completely over it, and God only knows how hard it is for me to just not touch the issue with Michelle as I prepare for a very busy week ahead. Should the first act of intercourse go to a man who has absolutely no intentions of sticking around a while needs to understand that it's going to be extremely difficult to let go after the deed. Now, I'm not saying I'm going to become clingy, I learned that lesson. It's just that he needs to know I thrive when all the love I have to give is channeled into one focus. I don't know exactly what that means for a relationship though. I kind of haven't had the practice.

Despite this shame of feeling this selfish about my current lot in life, I just can't shake Ian from my mind. It's inappropriate, it's probably sick, and it's just not what I expect out of myself, but not an hour has gone by where I don't start thinking about him. If I'm not thinking horrible thoughts of how handsome he looked at the funeral (the formal attire actually worn properly combined with the virgin factor just didn't help the annoyance of having a life decision completely stamped out for the foreseeable future), I want to start planning the next step in at least achieving an answer to my burning question: is he even remotely interested in me? I just won't bring it upon myself to act on my quest because I know just how wrong it is right now. I have too much respect for Ian as a human being to show him the worst lack of judgement on my part.

I don't even know if it would ever be worth it either. I mean, when I look at how he interacts with me, I just can't distinguish what could be a sign that he may have at least some kind of mutual feelings for me. I think that would probably be the one and only thing I'll never be able to stand with him: my inability to look at him and get a decent idea of what might be going through his head. I'd be so scared of offending or hurting him, and yet it'd be so hard for me to actually know. Even in the weeks leading up to his mother's death, not one person in my house knew something was up. He might have seemed a bit put off by an impending test required for his job, but nothing like this was ever hinted on.

But all this worrying about what he will actually say to a request for a chat at Tim Horton's does nothing to stop my desire for him, and I'm so far gone at this point, something tells me I'm getting to the point I'm not ready to hear a firm no as a response. I was ready to hear that a month ago. Not anymore.

I want him. I need him. I can't stop this. I want to be free of this pain. I don't know what to do.

Crossroads

2010-11-10T01:06:00.001-05:00

I have no idea how slackers do it.

It's been almost two weeks since I was sent home from work, and not a day goes by where I'm not thinking about my future. When I finally wake up, if I'm not browsing the Service Canada job bank website, I'm on the phone looking for a doctor. I eventually leave my room to use the facilities, but then I'm right back trying to think of something else I could be doing to insure I get my life back on track.

Today, I actually ran out of things I could be doing. I spent the day forcing myself not to go back to bed, because I absolutely hate it when I oversleep. It's too much of a sign of laziness for me, and the last thing I want is to make myself feel lazy when I know I can and should be working. Not to mention, I'm an incredibly lucid dreamer. I rarely have what most would consider "nightmares" because 99% of the time, I know I'm in a dream and I control what happens. Problem is, when I'm this far into a depression, my dreams become psychologically unbearable and if there's one thing I can't always control, it's my emotions. Dreams focusing on my loneliness, my past disappointments, and other past and present stresses begin to infiltrate my mind, and I wake up just not wanting to get out of bed; because God knows the real world isn't going to offer something better than what I was just dreaming about. I fucking flunked out of college because of these dreams, and now they're coming back - and here I thought it was a medication thing that was causing the dreams way back when.

I didn't want to look for another job, but my harsh reality is this: for the foreseeable future, I do not have an income, my drive to continue working in an environment that is absolutely toxic to a depressed mind is almost all but gone, and no mater how much I'm slowly coming to terms with a short period of time off to take inventory on my life, I cannot be in financial limbo. I need purpose and sleeping in until noon everyday as I loose more money is not purpose. So, at the very least, when I wake up, the first thing I do is grab my computer, and get on the Service Canada website and begin the process of finding new job postings; and if I can't find anything that I know I'm qualified to do there, I move on to the websites of big box and chain stores. As much as I want to, there's absolutely no use in walking in with a resume to those places, they all do their hiring online - Hell, nine times out of ten, the job listings I find on the job bank website want me to fill out an online form. Damn you 21st century and your improvements in the hiring process - you give me no reason to leave my room for a job!

The search for a doctor has given me one dead end after another. I went into a local walk-in clinic to see if they could do ANYTHING to help me get the short-term disability forms filled out as soon as possible, but the best they could do was put in an "urgent" request for an appointment with a psychiatrist in the area. It was so urgent, they told me they'd call be back by the end of the week I walked in, and I ended up calling them myself the following Monday to confirm they had booked me in for an appointment in December with a doctor all the way out in Fallowfield. (I'm extremely lucky OC Transpo has bus service that far out of town...) That's probably my biggest pet peeve with this whole "disability" process: the only two people that seem to have any kind of urgency with this matter are myself and work's HR head, who called me to see if my doctor had filled out the form yet. I get set up to Ottawa Civic, my second emergency psychiatric assessment in less than a year produced only the number for the community health clinic I'm already visiting on a weekly basis, the walk-in clinic doctor sends me home with false assurance someone was going to call me...I don't know what's more frustrating: not working or waiting for a professional recommendation not to work. Even calls home to my doctor back home is completely useless because he would need to see me in person.

Despite all of this, I think I've made some progress. First and foremost, even though there's no doctor yet, there is a councilor. In the past, someone outside of my work and home life is all I needed to keep going, and going to weekly sessions has proven helpful to some degree. My councilor is understanding, but plays the Devil's Advocate when needed. She knows that I've have great difficulty asking family for assistance, so she provided me with contact numbers for social assistance to help with my finances for the next month. She's the one that's somewhat convinced me that I really do need some time off to regroup. It's been almost six years since I first sought treatment for depression and the only time off I've really taken has been the odd vacation, to move, and the short wait between jobs after I got laid off earlier this year. She's a small dose of consistency in a time when I need it the most, but don't have the drive to create.

I've made limited progress in my roommate situation, but it's progress none the less. I won't lie, I still haven't opened up to everyone, regardless of strong recommendation I do so. It's a combination of pride, bad experiences with opening up to what turned out to be the wrong person, and hormonal instinct telling me that if I want a shot, it's probably not in my best interest to get into too much detail of my weakest moments with single cute guys my own age* (something that I don't think has ever happened in my life - older single cute guys who make it clear they're not interested, yes; young single cute guys who respond to light flirting never!) that's really preventing me from asking the opinion of anyone beyond Chris. The main reason I got him involved somewhat with what's going on is because after Bob left, he became the defaco household bookkeeper and he needed to know that I'm no doubt running into financial problems; but he's made it perfectly clear to me that I don't have to be alone. We've had a couple of conversations about what it really means to be depressed and what it means to be happy - I believe he went to school for psychology, so it's something that really gets him talking and thinking - and I got the same temporary sense of well-being as I do when I leave my councilor's office.

(*And if any of my roommates actually read this, I'm not saying who so don't ask...)

And despite of all the rotten depression shit I've been forced to face in recent weeks, the first major sign of recovery has arrived. Last week, after seeing they'd taken down their volunteer application form from their website, I went into Ottawa Little Theatre to offer my countless years of backstage experience to a new community theatre. They told me they took it down because they were getting at least 20 applications a week and it was getting difficult to keep up or to insure those that applied were interested; but because I physically walked into the theatre itself, by the end of Saturday, I had attended a play, was given a very welcoming tour of the facility, and was told to be at the first production meeting for their February production of The Long Weekend in a couple of weeks. If past experiences and patterns serve me correct, the moment I step back into a theatre after whatever sabbatical from theatre work is the moment things start picking up emotionally. When the depression first hit back home, it started when I offered my services to Petrolia Community Theatre when they were in a last minute pinch; then progress doubled when I took on my first full production with Theatre Sarnia. By show week for my last production with Theatre Sarnia, the ball was rolling on my move to Ottawa. Let's pray that this goodwill followed me...

There's so much I want to do with my time off, but it's a consistent fight to insure there's some stability when Hell has all but actually broken loose. All I want is to make sure my time is spent wisely in maintaining a good level of mental health, but all I'm doing is sitting waiting for phone calls, sending out resumes and applications that never seem to be read by recruiters and worrying about what my peers think of me. I want to escape this and lead the content life I want to lead. I can only hope that soon my fears will be laid to rest, and I will be on a path to something that may finally put my depression into a permanent recession.

(PS: To Bob: It's an hour late, but it's here! Thanks for reminder to keep writing. :))

Underwhelmed Pt. 3

2010-10-27T20:20:00.010-04:00

The truth is this: On October 23, 2010, I was sent home from work with short-term disability forms in hand. Management overheard a conversation I was having with a co-worker about my depression and I may have said a few things about how I sometimes feel like throwing myself into traffic. Of course, my words are always followed by “I made a pact not to do it”, but management didn’t care. As far as they knew, they had a severely depressed worker they didn’t have the resources on site to help. So, for the first time in my six years of dealing with this shit, I was actually told I couldn’t work because of my depression – something I’m betting my health care professionals and social workers alike will ultimately disagree with. Work even went as far to gave me a taxi coupon to get me to the hospital for a psychological evaluation.

I don’t know how much my next paycheque is going to be. I don’t know when I’m going to receive another one after that.

For the first time in six years, I’m scared shitless.

Montreal is virgin territory. A shame, really. I’ve seen both coasts of this massive country I call home, visited three out of the four biggest cities in Canada, I’ve travelled to other Francophone regions of this world, and I’ve seen some of the biggest cities in the planet; and yet I took me some 25 and a half years (and at least one year of actually living on the Ontario/Quebec border) to start exploration of La Belle Province.

As always, the exploration started in true Miss Emily style – with friends and Sloan in tow.

Maggie and Simon are honourary Montrealers. They attended school here, they received their first taste of what Canadian music is all about, they fell in love with the people and the vibe of the city. Although they have since moved back to the States, in the couple of times they’ve travelled to see Rainey and I in Ottawa, there is always a detour to Montreal so they can get their fill of bagels, Thai Express, and Lebanese cuisine. From the day we stepped off the cruise ship and turned the experience into something more lasting between friends, there was never any doubt that we would allow a Sloan tour featuring a Montreal date go unattended.

Unfortunately, my “lucky” 13th Sloan show ultimately reeked of the same issues that plagued the Hamilton show six months ago. Although I wouldn’t know that my work situation would be in the jeopardy it’s in until approximately 36 hours before I boarded the Greyhound bus, my mood was still the same – scared, but determined to keep a positive attitude for the occasion. I also made it a point to keep the darkness as under the radar from my travel companions as much as possible. The only possible clues I gave them to my situation was the fact that I would be leaving for Ottawa some five or six hours earlier than Rainey and her boyfriend Bob, and when I said my goodbyes to Maggie on Monday morning, I apologized for my early departure and explained it was a bit of an emergency. And it was in a way – I love my friends, but if I want to hang out with them again soon, I needed to get the ball rolling on making sure I’m back working as soon as possible so I can continue to make the money I need for the travel expenses.

When Rainey, Bob, and I got to Montreal, the shopping route for the day was simple: have breakfast at Cora’s (or Chez Cora as it’s known in Quebec) and locate the absolute best record shops in Montreal – and it wouldn’t be hard as the city is a Mecca for everything hipster. (Yes, I know, “hipster” is an incredibly pretentious way of describing it, but let’s face it, if the subculture didn’t exist, the record stores that are still around probably wouldn’t have enough business to stay open.) I found getting from point A to point B in Montreal to be a world of new but familiar fun. I love subway systems, and Montreal has the biggest in Canada. The fact that you can get anywhere in minutes and be in complete surprise as to what you’re going to see when you resurface tickles me more than the first time I stepped out of the London Underground to find myself staring straight up at the clock tower that is home to Big Ben. Under the guide of Maggie and Simon, I was uber excited to see the Metro brought us straight to Rue Saint-Denis, which is famous around the world for being the center of everything Juste pour rire. Our trip to Rue Saint-Denis produced some amazing store finds - two of the best I’ve ever seen. There was Beatnik, which is one of those record stores that never seems to run out of a new room of some kind of specialized genre of music, and there was Primitive, with it’s massive selection of 45 singles. I was also impressed by the staff, especially at Primitive. Both stores had awesome helpful staff who were more than willing to provide suggestions, but the awesome dude behind the counter at Primitive not only had a wicked French Canadian accent (one of the sexiest on the planet as far as I’m concerned!), but also took a couple of bucks off one of the singles I bought. Although I shouldn’t have done it, I didn’t let my financial situation keep me from making a few purchases. In total, I think I spent about $30 in vinyl this trip. I bought U2’s Joshua Tree, the Guess Who’s Greatest Hits, Queen’s Jazz, the B-52’s first album, and a couple of singles (the Archies’ “Sugar Sugar” and the Beatles “Help!”/”I’m Down”). All in all, I was proud I was able to keep my spending low.

Like clockwork, and no mater how much we were actually kind of hoping to avoid it for once, this adventure of all things vinyl and music did not go completely unnoticed by the legendary band we were scheduled to see later on in that evening. Not even ten minutes inside Beatnik, I noticed a smallish guy with a white toque browsing every single shelf in the store. Walking quickly over to my travelling companions, it was confirmed that I wasn’t seeing things – Jay Ferguson had come to comb through the selection. Because we just did not want to make fools out of ourselves, initially, we made it a very good point not to say anything or draw attention to the fact that some of us were getting overly excited at the idea that we were shopping with the Sloan guru of everything vinyl. We did a damn good job of it. We kept to ourselves as much as possible, and made sure not to make any kind of noticeable fuss when our browsing paths crossed with the guitarist - well, with the exception of the loud but playful insults we threw around to each other, but we did that regardless of were Jay was in the store. The only time we really spoke up was to announce that our next stop was the next record store down the block in hopes that the hint would reach Mr. Ferguson and he would know better not to follow the Sloan nerds. It’s not that we’re dangerous or anything – we’re just overly polite and we knew that if he followed us, we’d be too tempted to break our silence and possibly disturb him in his shopping. But alas, not even five minutes in Primitive, he walked through the doors to continue his pursuit. For most of our time in the store, we reverted back to avoiding ways, but by the end of it, Bob was getting frustrated at the fact that Rainey, Maggie and I just couldn’t bring it upon ourselves to just go and say “Hi” to Jay like the normal human being he is. I was going to do it – much like I did when we spoke to Patrick in Cambridge (He’s a human being! Just go over and talk, it’s not that bad!) – but Bob hasn’t been a fan of the band as long as his girlfriend, and didn’t have the same reluctance as the long-time devotees. As far as he was probably concerned, Jay is just some guy and there was no need to that indecisive as to whether or not we should talk to the man. So as I was finding the words to say, Bob did the unthinkable – he introduced himself to Jay without consulting with us on how to do it. Good on him, too. In the end, Jay didn’t seem to mind being bothered by the three fans who seem to pop up in the most random places (like the stage at that show in Hamilton last spring…) and he thanked us for our “repeat business”. Bob was impressed at the idea that he could really just do that and became a bit more understanding as to why we are such big fans of Sloan (Great band, great guys!) and (hopefully) a bit more hesitant to speak up when it really shouldn’t be that big a deal - when you’re that big of a fan with a musician is that down to earth, it’s sometimes difficult to make sure you keep your status from going from “harmless enthusiastic fan” to “freak”. Bob even mentioned later how he almost asked Jay if he wanted to join us for coffee, but by then there was a small need to get off Rue Saint-Denis to find food – no more worry of Jay following us!

Dinner took place at the Eaton Center, which I thought was a Toronto-only shopping establishment, but alas, there’s one in Montreal. The Metro takes you straight there, and Simon and I went straight to the Thai Express for our eats. I didn’t end up finishing mine though. My appetite (even for tasty ethic fast food) was (and still is for that matter) pretty non-existent at that point. The hotel check-in included a phone call to my mom to let her know I made it to Montreal OK. I made sure to not lead on of any problems at work, which just made the situation a little worse inside. (I’ll never be ready to tell my family I’m having problems) But I kept a smile on my face, and made sure to push for the obligatory early arrival by the Sloan nerds to the Cabaret – didn’t completely work though. Apparently Montreal is a very relaxed kind of city, and the Montrealers in the group knew that arriving early just wasn’t necessary as most of the audience would not arrive for at least an hour after the door opened. They were right. We got there 15 minutes before the doors opened, and could comfortably step outside the lobby for a smoke, which I participated in out of sheer need to relax. (I smoked for exactly one year, but quit after the initial depression stress dwindled to a manageable level. The only reason I probably won’t start it back up again will be because I now live with folks that frown upon the inhalation of nicotine.)

Getting inside the Cabaret and to our regular spots was the biggest single relief I’d had all weekend. Despite it all, I had made it to familiar territory. I was surrounded by people who made me happy, and everything began to fall into it’s regular happy concert routine place. I guess like true Montreal fashion, few people were there for the first hour or so we waited at the front, so we were able to hover between the stage, the bar, and the merchandise booth, which was all important due to the simple fact we were greeted by our old friend, Jay Coyle, the band’s go to man for everything US promotion. He joined the band for a few of the dates in this quick tour of Atlantic Canada; but more importantly for us, he is the extremely friendly face that hosted the Barenaked Ladies’ b-side listening party on the cruise and manned the merchandise booth through our three-city US tour last December. Always there to offer a deck of Sloan trading cards to those who already have the actual product that’s being offered alongside the relic of the Action Pact tours, that Jay Coyle is and always will I be there to offer my warmest welcome should he tour with the band to Ottawa (or Sarnia for that matter). The only thing that may have been a little off center from my regular concert-going tradition is the fact that, for the first time at any concert (let alone a Sloan show), I actually drank to the point I was drunk for at least the opening band, and remained buzzed for most of Sloan. By the end of it, I had sobered up enough to hide it from Chris Murphy; but had he come over to talk with us before the Golden Dogs took the stage, Sloan’s resident teetotaller would have seen a side of this fan that’s far from amusing even in the best of situations.

The show was everything I needed from a Sloan show – the show started off with my favourite “Loosing California”, random album cuts (particularly from the classic Twice Removed, which they had performed in it’s entirety a few nights prior), a performance of “Underwhelmed” without need to ask, some flirtatious winks and the like directed from Chris to the Sloan nerds in front, an encore featuring “G Turns to D” (which is always welcomed as it brings back very special cruise memories) and, last but not least, a song featuring an outside player (in this case, it was the drummer for the Golden Dogs on “The Good in Everyone”).

After the show, while waiting for the obligatory post-show meet-up with Chris, we received a random visit by someone who doesn’t always come out – Mr. Patrick Pentland. It was more than welcome and extremely fitting. Not only is it just always a treat to be able to tell him he rocks to his face, but today he especially rocked it in my books. It was just earlier in the day I was finally able to read his latest blog post in which he opened up about his past battles with panic and anxiety. (Click here to read it!) Of course, neither he or my companions would know why it was just that more important I tell him that he posted a really good entry; but I knew why, and I hope that by talking about it to folks that understand, he knows did the right thing and hopefully feel no shame in doing it. (You know, something I could really learn from this week...)

(Oh, and per usual Patrick, he asked if we had anything he wanted him to sign, and per us, we didn’t. Next time, someone please just remind me to give in to this offer? I’ve still got that damn Action Pact tour poster that I brought on the cruise that still doesn’t have a signature from Patrick or Andrew!)

Having said that, I did arrive that evening with just one request that I don’t normally ask for because, to be honest, I’m not a fan of rock start type photos with me in them. (I find them ended up looking corny, and me looking less than photogenic.) But alas, it had to be done, and per usual Chris, I got more. Photos exist of me, Rainey and Chris, and photos exist of Chris and Maggie, but we don’t have a photo of the Sloan nerds together with Chris. I decided it was time I had one for the records - especially since I was facing an extended period of off time where I’m definitely going to need something positive to do and a scrapbook-type project sounded just about right. Thing that made it more was a small move that few folks saw. Chris probably wouldn’t remember it at all (especially since it happened pre-cruise and at least four years ago now), but the first time I met him at a tour date in Sarnia, I had received a kiss from him, and it pretty much made my year. (Believe it or not, the original blog entry can be found here!) When the time came in Montreal finally get some photos taken of all of us, three pictures were taken. At first, I was standing beside everyone, which was fine, but everybody thought for the next one, I should be in front – you know, because I’m so damn short. So in front I got for the second one, and Mr. Murphy decided to make fun of how damn short I am by resting his head on mine…and being the flirt that he is, he decided to plant one on my ear. Third photo he wanted to take because he wasn’t smiling in the last one. After we were done, I looked up, and he gave me another one right on the lips. All in all, it was quite innocent, but it was a small reminder of how it all began for me, what’s come since, and will be a reminder to keep fighting to make sure I don’t close the doors that allow me the opportunity to spend time with not only Sloan, but with the friends I’ve cultivated this amazing relationship with.

And if it wasn’t enough that I spent the perfect evening doing pretty much the only thing that makes me happy – spending quality time with good friends and good music – as we were leaving, we hear someone in the background say “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was part of the songwriter circle you did on the cruise last year…” Needless to say, our ears perked up, and turned to see Mike Evin reintroduce himself to Chris. We waited until we got outside the venue to introduce ourselves as former cruise passengers ourselves, and then ended up spending at least ten minutes reminiscing about the cruise with the independent singer-songwriter, and wishing so hard that more folks on the cruise had paid attention to Sloan.

Cruise alumni, a kiss from a rock star, past song requests, friends, new city to explore, a small sense of well being – all of it all rolled into one night.

It broke my heart to leave the next morning.

It’s been two days since I got home. I vowed to myself to make sure I do something everyday to keep fighting. Of course, that all came to a screeching halt when a trip to a local walk-in clinic to begin the process of filling out that damn disability form only proved to be yet another dead end. I was told that my physician would have to help me fill it out – you know, the one thing I’ve been trying to get in Ottawa for over two months now. The doctor was extremely critical at the idea that I haven’t filled my portion of the forms out yet (something I want to do with a councillor or doctor at my side) and she told me she would put in an urgent request to have their psychiatrist call me with an appointment as soon as possible.

It was extremely hard for me to admit it to any of my new roommates that something is extremely wrong. If I haven’t explained it yet, I’m now living with four guys, and of those four guys, only one knows what’s going on. He’s fully understanding of the situation (and the financial problems I’m facing) and he’s been putting my mind at ease by sending me texts through the day. The rest of them, I don’t know if they should know or if I should just go as long as I can without bringing it up. I know that it won’t take long for someone else to notice that I haven’t been at work all week. It's not that I wouldn't trust them to be respectful about it. It's just that almost all of me is ashamed for what's transpired at work. This feels like a life sentence for saying one thing wrong and I don't want my roommates to judge. For the first time ever, I’m paying a price for the bipolar diagnosis. I want to work, I need to work, I need to keep going. But it’s not going to happen.

As corny as it sounds, I know I'm going to need to channel the events of Montreal into something positive. At the very least, I need to keep small chunk of mind going while I can't work. I need to hang on to what makes me smile.

I presented the idea to Maggie, who I’m assuming passed it on to Rainey – the idea of starting a campaign to get Sloan on the Canada Walk of Fame. I think I’m really going to go ahead with it. It’s not like all I don’t have the time to devote myself to a blog that may require daily attention. All I know is that it may be the only way to make sure I thank the band and my friends properly for their help over the past couple of years.

And maybe, just maybe, it will be the one thing I need to keep me going through this tough time.

Wish me luck, and if I don’t succeed, to everyone: from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

(For more photos, please click here!)

Underwhelmed Pt. 2

2010-08-21T12:44:00.009-04:00

So it's be a long time since I contributed a word to this blog. Of course, the past two entries are the exception, and were intended to get me back into the loop of writing for purposes of venting - something I used to do back in the day when I posted to MySpace. As you might have guessed from the last entry, things haven't being going as smoothly as I let on to a lot of folks, so I am going to make a renewed effort to post as often as I can to help get me through this rough patch.

It's going to take a while to get back into it - I've figured out the correlation between my ability to remember to write for therapy purposes may have something to with the frequency I take medication. Needless to say, shortly after the cruise last year, I went into a period were I was forgetting to take my pills, and by the end of the summer, I went off them completely because I was actually doing really well. The last real entry I made was just as my doctor agreed that it wouldn't be practical to keep going with the pills. With the move pending, my finances thanked me for the one less thing I had to buy, my sanity thanked me for the one less thing I had to worry about, and I thanked me for getting to the point I didn't need them.

Of course, that was last year. My mood and state of mind has changed drastically, and I will probably be asking my doctor to help me back onto medication; and with the revert back to the pills, more than likely I'll be back at the whole writing thing...

...well, writing for the purposes of venting that is.

To be honest, I have been publishing a number journal-type entries - it's just that they've been strictly to Flickr, right along side my photos from the latest entries into my on-going quest to attend as many damn Sloan shows as possible; and I was trying to avoid redundancy. I'd already posted something somewhere else in regards to the events at hand, and I didn't want those who read the blog to think I'm even more crazy in my band obsessive ways than what I'm leading on to. Don't worry, though. No restraining order has been issued, and it's now August 21th and I haven't seen hide or hair of my favourite Haligonians since the free show in June, nor are there any real plans to see them in the near future.

Having said that, since I left off, the saga continued in a big way, and it's high time I updated the progress here - especially since the reminder of what good came of my move to Ottawa is well needed boost to my self esteem. I won't lie, most of what I'll post in this entry will be copied, pasted, and expanded from entries Flickr. Yes it will be reeking with the redundancy I was trying so hard to avoid, but for the most part, I told it the way I wanted to the first time.

And hey, while I'm at it, I can include the pictures! Gotta make it interesting and somewhat somehow, right?

Anyway, without further drivel...

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Sloan (Then and now)
The story so far:

Sloan consists of Jay Ferguson (guitar/bass/vocals), Chris Murphy (bass/drums/vocals), Patrick Pentland (guitar/vocals), and Andrew Scott (drums/guitar/vocals). They are a independent pop-rock outfit, originally from Halifax, Nova Scotia; and are best known for a series of critically acclaimed albums released between 1992 and 2000. Almost 20 years later, they're still kicking ass.

I've been a uber Sloan nerd since 2001.

Chris Murphy is my hero as a bass player.

The first time I saw them played live, they pulled an audience member on stage to play bass with them. I've been wanting to do the exact same thing ever since.

It's been a good five or six years since I've played bass within a band setting. I blame the depression

At the time of my last entry, I'd seen the band in concert seven times, which includes three separate shows on the cruise. The last show prior to the entry was June 20, 2009.

I moved to Ottawa and was living with another uber Sloan nerd for several months.

The story picks up on the evening of December 2, 2009. Being that it was the week of Rainey's birthday, and Sloan just happening to be touring within reasonable driving distance of Maggie, I decided that three dates along side my reunited Sloan nerd friends would be too much fun to pass up. So, after learning my lesson from my previous attempt to attend concerts without actually booking anytime off, I made sure I was not in Ottawa city limits when I called in to let my employer to let them know I wasn't coming into work. In fact, I wasn't in the country when I called - the Greyhound bus had just crossed the state line into Massachusetts after an all-night drive when I made the call.

That's right - we took our obsession international. (Well, without aid of the cruise, that is.)

To be exact, the first date on our mini-tour of New England and the mid-Atlantic states began in Cambridge the super pretty high-end suburb of Boston - and on a tactical level, it didn't exactly get off on the right foot. After dropping our stuff off at her apartment, Maggie, Rainey and I spent the day wandering around Cambridge, looking for used record stores. I bought a few albums of note, but none as notable as my purchase of Introducing The Beatles, the first Beatle album released in the States. The thing about it is, the last time I saw it on sale at a used record shop, it was at least $2,000 - I bought this copy for $15. Nearing the end of our day, being the nerds that we are, we decided to check out the location of the club to see if we could spot the band. For me, traditionally, this is a practice that never works, so I rarely try it. But alas, I was with at least one person who's experienced success with it, so we gave it a go.

Boston Skyline
(All photos are links to their Flickr entries, so click away!)

When we ran into Chris Murphy and Jay Ferguson a little less than a block from the venue - and that's when it started. For a good hour even after the event, my heart was pounding, I got a bit dizzy, a bit week, I had shallow breath, confusion all around. Now, I know how that's a fairly normal reaction for 99% of the population when they run into their favourite band somewhat randomly on the street, but as the cruise previously proved, it can actually be quite hard for me to separate the good panic from the bad panic. I had to run a head a bit and kind of hide for a moment to catch whatever sanity I had left and to convince myself this latest panic attack was a good thing, so I could actually greet the two members of the band, ask Jay to do a preliminary inspection of my Beatle record (he said it was in good condition and it could be worth the $2,000 it's possibly valued*), and have an articulate conversation with Chris. Minus six points for me - especially after I realized I didn't bring up the topic of BASS GUITARS with him.

(*Note: I asked a guy in a record shop about my record, he said it could be counterfeit. Oh well, at least it was a conversation starter.)

Sloan, live at TT The Bear's in Cambridge, MA, December 3, 2009

The good news is, this would prove to be one of only two small band-related panic attacks of the trip, and by the end of the night, I was already showing signs of relaxing around unusual situations. For the first time in my long standing admiration of the band, I got to talk to Patrick that night. This first meeting, however, was a little awkward. It was a bold introduction, he was just kind of hanging out in the bar area and I forced the nerds to go say "Hi" after they spent at least ten minutes in limbo about approaching the guitarist. My first words to him were something along the lines of "We saw you standing here and we really just wanted to say 'Hi' and 'You rock'." I'm assuming he was assuming we wanted something out of him, like an autograph or something and not much else. It was not the most comfortable encounter ever, and he almost insisted he sign something and was taken back when we admitted to not having a pen. It almost took me back to when a co-worker had told me he thought they were assholes, (maybe he was right, just a little bit?) but I took the uneasy interaction with about a million grains of salt because I was happy that we got to say hi, and that's all that mattered - and I was happy I was the one to take initiative to approach the rock star. Score two points back.

The next day, the inevitable occurred...well, for any traveler that is. I mean, at some point, we all have to step foot in New York City, right?

With Maggie actually being a native of New York, a tour date in Brooklyn meant a trip home for her, and a hitched ride to Brooklyn for us...and a pit stop to the heart of New York City while on route to the actual venue in the borough. I always envisioned my first time in the city would have something to do with a taping of Saturday Night Live, or even Conan O'Brian (when he was there). But that wasn't to be the case. Nope, I had two companions and our mission was to see Sloan. Really, could I have asked for a better reason to finally step foot in the city? Oh, and 1,000,000 points scored for me - no panic under NYC-brand pressure! I guess all those trips to London really paid off for my calmness on the subway. Of course, Maggie was there to help, but with the small rush we were in to get to the venue early - after all, NYC is a small US stronghold for Sloan and it was guaranteed to be slim pickings for front row privileges - it was a miracle I was able to hold it together to get to the place in once piece!

This is what Times Square looked like. That's right...blurry. :p I definitely need to go back - and spend more than an hour wandering around.

The show was at the Bell House in Brooklyn to be exact, and it was one of the nicest clubs I've ever stepped foot in. Despite it all, we were very early, and ended up having a very pleasant conversations with everyone from patrons to the club owner, all of whom were thoroughly impressed that we came all the way from Canada. (In fact, the majority of the Americans we spoke to along the way were super awesome and welcoming to us when we explain how far we came. So balls to anyone who thinks Americans are rude!) Even randomly running into the band proved to be pleasant experiences - not a single ounce of panic! Much like we did in Cambridge, Maggie, Rainey and I crossed paths with both Jay and Chris before the show, under two completely different circumstances.

The encounter with Jay was a bit more...shal we say, traditional, in a fan/band way. He was just passing by while we were on our way into the venue and we stopped him to say 'Hi'. (Jay: "Hey jive turkeys! Did I not just see you guys three days ago?"Us: "That was last night.") It was a bit odd really, and very random. But, I like random, so it was awesome to talk to Jay - especially since it totally put my mind at ease that my crew had made it to the right little hole in the wall club in the biggest city in the United States of America.

We also found Chris...correction, he found us. Being the involved kind of guy he is, he must caught sight of us staking out the front row shortly before the opening band came on, and decided to come over and chat with his uber fans. Any points I gained though with the panic-less complete surprise interaction with both the guitarist and the hero bassist were lost when I, yet again, forgot to bring up the topic of guitars with the hero bassist and I went yet another show without a chance of Mr. Murphy repeating the Bayfest incident with yours truly.

And with that, I kicked myself in the ass for the last time.

After the show, I had what turned out to be my final Sloan-related panic of the trip. I decided to throw out the often forgotten tactic of trying to embed the bass-playing super nerd into the head of Chris and just come right out and ask. It's EXTREMELY rare I'm this upfront with something I want but don't think I necessarily deserve for whatever reason; but I figured it's high time I found out what it's like to play like I used to - you know, because it's been absolutely years since I've actually played onstage. For the first time in ages, I shook while I spoke to him, and it took a lot to ask the simple question "Can I play a song with you guys tomorrow night?" He told me he would see what he could do. I left Brooklyn assuring myself that no matter what happened, at least I asked and I could be proud I took a big step in just ASKING.

But alas, the third and final show on our journey would not be the show of my triumphant return to the stage of rock, as I never got the chance to remind him before the show - but that doesn't mean the last show of the tour wasn't the sweetest of them all.

You see, driving down to the City of Brotherly Love turned out to be a real chore. First off, upon crossing the state line into New Jersey, the two Canadians in the car found themselves in a winter wonderland - two days before I would see my first snowfall as a resident of Ottawa, Ontario - you know, only the third snowiest world capital on the planet (or something like that).Then, upon our arrival in Philadelphia, we found out the hard way that it is the worst place in the US to drive and find your way around in the dark. Very narrow cobble stone streets not meant traffic designed after 1809, grumpy drivers and a lot of seedy neighbourhoods not far from the historical district. Not good on the calm soul, let me tell you - and we all did a damn good job of keeping our wits about us as we drove around in circles trying to find our hotel. After five hours, we finally found it, dumped our stuff, and made it to the venue, just in time to get to the front before it filled up with what I'm guessing are all the Sloan fans in Philly.

But regardless of the pressure of the days events, the performance ended up feeling like an awesome send off from the band. First off, Chris made full mention to the audience that the three in the front had been on the road for three days, and then went on to play Maggie and Rainey's only request for the week: a song called Deeper Than Beauty, off Sloan's second album, Twice Removed. It features just a guitar, drums and a single vocal and is a total sing along treat for hardcore fans who get to hear it; but when requested prior that week, Chris seemed a little less than enthusiastic to do it. Don't think he hates the song, but he did seem uncomfortable at the idea of playing it. When we asked again in Brooklyn, again, it wasn't completely well received. Coming back for the encore in Philly, however, we were treated with full performance of the song - which featured Chris using Jay's Epiphone guitar with a very thin guitar strap over the rather noticeable piece of metal that's holding his collarbone together. So, to recap, my hero rose to the occasion, suffered through a bit of pain to get through the song, all for us three - who totally forgot he was in a car accident when we asked for the song. And to think, after all was said and done, he made sure to remind us that we shouldn't give up on the band.

One other thing happened during that night that totally threw me for a loop as far as my impression of the band is concerned. Yes, we've officially met every single member of the band at some point or another (we even got to have a small conversation with Andrew - he was tipsy and was commenting on the lovely neighbourhood in which the Philadelphia club was located) but for the most part, if you are a causal fan and ever try to meet Sloan, it's almost guaranteed that it's going to be Chris that will speak to. It's somewhat unlikely you will see anyone else - which is why when presented with the opportunity to speak with Patrick in Cambridge, I took it. But as mentioned, little was actually said beyond the "Hi", "You rock," and "No, we don't want anything signed." For this show three nights later, the guitarist actually came down from the stage with the intent of thanking me for my on-going support. I couldn't help but feel really humbled at the idea that he would have thought to approach me again to talk after a weird introduction; and maybe, just maybe, I was able to prove to myself (at least) he's not as big of an asshole as my co-worker made him out to be. Fuck bass playing - I totally won over Patrick Pentland!

Apparently, it's not always sunny in Philadelphia.

It was a long ride home, and wouldn't you know it, I re-learned my lesson about calling in sick for concerts (not that anybody found out where I was - it's just that the snow in New Jersey followed us home and in a place as snowy as Ottawa, some employers don't take road conditions as an excuse for tardiness), but in the end, the trip was worth it. I scored some much needed points to my ego, and it provided fuel when times really started going downhill at work...

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...and holy fuck, did the times at work go downhill quickly. By the time my birthday rolled around on April 24th, I had been unemployed for one week. Yup, almost exactly six months to the day I started working at a local call center, I was laid off and on the hunt for work yet again.

It was extremely risky to plan a Sloan excursion around the time, but Rainey, Maggie and I did it anyway; especially since Maggie had travelled to see them in Los Angelas for her birthday and, given the pattern started by Rainey in December, it was a given that I'd be allowed the opportunity to see the band for my birthday - and seeing as I was completely free the weekend of my birthday, and in despriate need for a pick-me-up, a weekend excursion to Hamilton, Ontario was very possible and appealing. Not to mention, it was also a good excuse to spend a night in Toronto. We couldn't resist. Toronto is a land of awesome record stores and general geek-ness and is a treat for any Canadian music fan - especially those Canadian music fans who travel from far off places like Boston!

So after a night in downtown Toronto, we got to Hamilton, and we found ourselves in a full state of bordom. Hamilton is not the most inviting city on the planet, and Rainey totally got some weird vibes off the place, so ending up at the venue as early as we did was only achieved because we were that frustrated with lack of things to do - and we knew damn well if we didn't, we wouldn't get a front row spot. Unlike some prior shows, this one took place in Canada. Canadians from coast to coast know who Sloan is and, for the most part, love Sloan to the point their shows are more than likely going to sell out.

To be expected, we were eventually found by Chrs. For all those who actually thing the guys in this band are assholes, I dare them to name another band who seeks out hardcore fans personally before shows, and offering them spots on guest lists as thanks for patronage! (Oddly enough, the only reason we accepted the offer was that Simon was basically along for the ride with Maggie, and didn't have a ticket - otherwise, especially since we come from great distances, $25 isn't a lot to pay for insurance that you're absolutely going to get into a show.)

Anyway, it took me a few minutes, but eventually, I sucked up whatever nerves and asked again if I could play with them on stage. I told him I could play three songs. He told me that of the three songs, only one was his own and that one song of his has been overplayed to the point where some members of the band refuse to play it. The other two were written by another member of the band and he wasn't sure how the writer would feel about someone else playing on the song. Regardless, he would see what he could do.

And just like in Brooklyn, if nothing happened, at least I asked. That's all I could have asked from myself. I left it at that, and went on a Timmy's run.

So we got to the break in the show. After huddling in the wing of the stage to discuss the encore (and watch in amazement as a douchbag got up to take the set list from behind the drum kit), Chris came over to me and said "Underwhelmed in F-sharp."

That's right folks. Eight years, eleven shows and who knows how many miles later, I stepped onto the stage with my hero. The only uncertainty that even remotely flashed through my mind was after an acknowledgement to the douchbag who couldn't wait five more minutes for the set list just as I was stepping onto the stage. I couldn't necessarily hear who was being discussed and in my slightly befuddled state of mind, I thought the band wasn't informed that a fan had actually asked a head of time to come onto the stage. But alas, Chris followed the douchbag mention by clearly joking that I was there to steal his bass - all while offering me a pick.

Other than that, and some minor glitches probably caused by the fact I left the singer without a guitar (thus giving him enough extra time on his hands to periodically interrupt my concentration by having me sing as well as play) and the fact that I'm, no doubt, incredibly rusty, I played extremely well. The stage didn't scare me, the audience didn't scare me - the fact I was playing with one the greatest and most influential groups in Canadian music history didn't scare me.

Proudest moment of my life.
I did it, Goddammit!

--

So where do I go from here? I mean, I accomplished my goal of playing with my heroes, I've seen Sloan perform in some of the biggest cities in North America, and I have at least some confidence that really anything is possible.

Why, back to square one, naturally.

When it was announced that Sloan was playing this thing called WestFest, I decided to take some time to read up on what it was all about. Almost immediately, I got the impression it was Ottawa's answer to Artwalk, Sarnia's big downtown art festival. Seeing as I was once an avid volunteer with several Sarnia organisations (including Artwalk) and am now eight months into my residence here in Ottawa, I thought it was high time I started volunteering again. It would give me an excellent opportunity to meet new people and get a feel of what Westboro is like as a community.

But if there was one thing I thought I'd be adamant about when I signed up, it was making sure my volunteer service stayed away from the backstage area while Sloan was on festival grounds. I'm no stranger to a backstage - at least 15 years of my life was spent helping in a theatre - but I knew it would just be too awkward, somewhat creepy and, above all, rude, to have a known fan backstage. As much as becoming a roadie is always in the back of my mind as an alternative to becoming a full time musician, I hear far too many horror stories of fans becoming creepy stalkers, and part of me felt that I would be taking it too far if I got to help backstage. I volunteer because it's just as much a part of who I am as music itself is, and not because I know it could be a way in. But, in the end, I decided that I needed to put the social opportunity ahead of being a shut in on the grounds I would stick to personal ethics. If asked, I would help backstage, but I also decided to make sure I did my hardest to keep Saturday completely clear.

While attending the volunteer meeting, I was under the impression my conscience would be in the clear - except for the fact I had to sign up to help on the Saturday. The organizers were offering those without SmartServe (the Ontario certificate needed to serve alcohol in restaurants) the opporunity to get it so long as they signed up for three shifts in the beer tent. Seeing as I was between jobs at the time of the meeting and hadn't recieved a paycheck in over a month, the offer was extremely appealing to someone who just couldn't afford the $36 to get it on their own. But I knew that would be OK - those in the band that do drink were probably going to get their alcohol provided to them for free and there would be no need for them to venture to the public beer tent.

The nerves started to go into the yellow a few days prior to the first night when we were told that those who were originally scheduled in for the beer tent were bumped to float positions; which meant if someone needed an extra hand, they would come to us...including possible backstage work. I hoped it'd be OK, especially after my first night of pacing and making sure folks didn't take booze from the licenced area. But that was Friday night at WestFest, which meant it was "Rootsy Women" night, which means very little extra help was needed backstage. Saturday was "Pop Explosion" night, which meant more equipment to keep an eye on.

I had arrived early to start a little earlier because I knew I'd be leaving early and I acutally got the day off. I THOUGHT they'd be putting me to work doing something small like they did the night before. First thing they needed though: a few strong hands to help with some equipment backstage and there were only three of us available. A small lightening bolt of fear struck through me as I thought about the repercussions of wandering onto no-fan-land, but I also knew that the band themselves weren't even close to the city of Ottawa, (thanks Twitter) so I decided to help...

...only to receive the first wave of panic after noticing the backstage crew was unloading several very familiar blue boxes alongside a couple of roadies we've seen at every show since Cambridge.

I wanted to run. I shouldn't have been there, it was creepy and I had this consistent fear of being caught. But I kept it together, went into theatre volunteer mode (I may not have wanted to be back there at that precise moment, but at least I have enough similar experience to know what I was doing), did what was needed of me, and left for volunteer central.

The panic of that moment was nothing compared to what came not an hour later.

The joke was when the volunteer coordinator came up to me to ask if I would watch some equipment backstage was that I wasn't allowed to steal the guitars. Sadly, I can't say I found it particularly funny - just severly ironic in a shameful kind of way. I was the only one available to do it though and I made it perfectly clear that if I was spotted/recognised by the band and they weren't comfortable with it, I wanted out.

So, regardless of the happy face I put on while I dropped my purse off with Maggie and Rainey on the way back, I was going into full panic as I went back to my post.

It felt like the cruise all over again.

Eyes to the floor, small breaths, brim of my cap as far down as possible...and thank God for the first time in a long time, it was my Sarnia Sting cap and not my Matthew Good one.

And yes, they were all back there for a few minutes as I got instructions. Patrick in particular was wandering around the stairs to the stage for about 10 minutes while sat and thought about how badly wanted to fucking hide. I love the band with all my heart, and as usual, we got to say hi to Chris again after the show, but I absolutely did not want to be noticed and thought of as a groupie back there for the wrong reason - regardless of knowing that any conversation could have gone the other way.

I was only able to relax a little when Twitter confirmed they'd gone for dinner elsewhere - thank God again. I mean, the catering was right beside the tent used for instrument storage. I rarely ate on the cruise because I absolutely hated being in the buffet while my idols ate. (When Emily's nervous and anxious, Emily doesn't eat - even when the food is free and in abundance.) I would hate to think what level of professionalism would be on display if I was caught.

But all in all, my efforts to keep my nerves under control worked and nobody noticed me. I tried to start a little conversation with the older lady assigned with me, and I even let her know when a member of Sloan walked by, but she wasn't particularly interested in anything (except maybe the lead singer of one of the opening bands who looked like a rail). I was able to get myself one of the fancy Starbucks drinks (something to do with passionfruit, lemon and ice tea) that were being served to the VIPs. And last but not least, I was able to catch up on the events of the day from South Africa. It wasn't pleasent for this England supporter.

Looking back on it, my feelings for the day trouble me to no end. After all I'd accomplished, I hate that it actually esclated to panic and anxiety. For all intensive purposes, I should be proud of what I did. The rest of the weekend and the experience was spent learning about Westboro, how important the festival is for the district, meeting new people in this still very new place. It's been eight months since I left Sarnia, and now that I'm acutally going to be working for a company that will allow me to have a social life, getting myself out there will be extremely important. But I've become so worried about how people percieve me that it's almost more important that what I know I need to do to strengthen my moods. Not to mention, the opporunity to do backstage work should have felt like something far more tactical. If I can't be the musician I once dreamed I was going to be, than I need to figure out a definitive plan B - and watching the roadies and crew work over the course of the hour or so I was backstage should have sparked some interest. Last, but not least, part of me is ashamed that I've actually put so much emotional baggage on yet another rock concert - and a Sloan one at that. It was because of a similiar need to put public percieption before who I am as a person that I was unable to enjoy Ships & Dip to the extent I should have. For all I know, had I not cared what could have been thought of me, it could have been quite pleasent and enjoyed the opportunity.

--

And that, folks, is where the story ends for now.

I often wonder if I should continue to persue the band like I do. On one hand, the experience at Westfest definitely gave me a renewed sense of dermination to continue with my plight to rid myself of everything anxiety, but yet I know that my goals shouldn't focus around one band and, given the nature of other blog entries, my day-to-day anxieties have absolutely nothing to do with Sloan. Hell, if anything, Westfest should have put me right back on the path to an education in music so that I can possibly work for bands going forward - doesn't have to be Sloan (although that would kick ass), but as long as I find a carrer in music doing something. Can't say the anxiety would be erradicated completely, but at least I'll be doing what I've been wanting for a long time and that alone would be enough to leave me content with life.

But when I start thinking about a time in the near future where I'm not planning my next Sloan excursion, I can't help but be scared out of letting go of something that's meant so much. Yes, I might have accomplished the ultimate for any music fan; but more importantly, I have seen and done so much in the past year and a half. I've seen places I didn't think I'd be seeing this quickly in my life, I met people who changed my perspective on everything and, however brief, a smile appears on my face. Even if it's just for the evening of the show, I'm smiling - and why should I put something that makes me happy on the most basic level to rest?

At this time, there's no solid plans to see Sloan again in the near future. Timing and money seem to be the contributing factor, but that doesn't mean a pipe dream hasn't formed and I'm looking into what avenues are available in the coming months. Don't want to get into any details, and I may have to go at it alone, but if it's accomplished, than maybe - just maybe - I will have the satisfaction of putting another dark chapter to rest.

No matter what, there will always be something to accomplish; and with it will come an excuse to see Sloan.

Bring on the next chapter, whenever that may be.

One Little Victory

2010-08-16T12:00:00.001-04:00

I wasn't working.

I wasn't at school.

I wasn't at the Imperial.

I wasn't home, alone.

On April 24, 2010, I was here. -->

And I've been here for the past nine months. (Well, not exactly HERE - my ass would have been hauled to jail by now....)

That's right. I've moved out. Finally.

Basically, the only reason I'm here is because memories of a family vacation were jogged big time when I met my roommate, Rainey, on the cruise last year. Once I figured out I had a new friend who was looking for new living arrangements in her hometown - which is a fair distance from my own hometown without the hassle of changing provinces - a proposal was made. On September 26th, 2009, I quit my job at StarTek. The next day, I left Sarnia for good and headed for big city living in Ottawa.

As mentioned almost two years ago, Ottawa was an option I was playing with as an alternative to Vancouver. Sure, it's a bit of a step down, considering I really wanted to get as far away as possible. But in the end, heading to the other end of the provence was better on the bank account then heading clear across the country; and seeing as I needed a quick fix to the five years of discontent from living in Sarnia, I decided to give Ottawa living a chance.

And holy shit, did I make the right decision!

As much I went from eying the country's third largest city to it's fourth largest, it's by no means a small town; which is extremely important for this small town girl. I was looking for a change in senery and I got it in an unlikely place. No, it's not nearly as spiffy as the Toronto/Montreal/Vancouver trifecta of urban Canadiana; nor does it have the same level of cool as some of it's international counterparts (ex. London, Paris, Toyko, etc.). And yes, it is known as "Sillicon Vally North" and a good portion of the population is made up of politicians and burocrats. All in all, it really shouldn't be that appealing to someone looking for some excitment in a city center. But, surprisingly, this town holds it own. The downtown is clean, is completely pedeistrian friendly, and everything is within walking distance. Unique shops and eateries are in abundence, and (regardles of what anyone says) the place is full of great venues that bands frequent.

Even the parts of this city that should be strictly fodder for tourists are above and beyond my expectations. The museums and the National Art Gallery appeal as much to the locals as they do to visitors, the Rideau Canal offers miles of parkland (and turns into a very lovely skating rink in the winter!), and as weird and as corny as this sounds, there's really nothing that relaxes me more than a 10 minute walk around Parliament Hill. First off, I love the idea that I can actually do that - I mean, this is the most important building in the country and, providing it's open to the public, I can plant my ass on the front lawn to relax. But regardless of the availablility of the lawn for lounging, just walking around the building can be most satisfying when things just aren't going well. From it's look out points, you can see pretty much all of Gatineau (and it's hills - for the first time in my life, the landscape isn't just farm land!), almost far enough down the Ottawa River to see my (soon to be former) neighbourhood of Nepean, and the beginnings of the hussel and bussel that is the Byward Market. Absolutely gorgeous on a bright sunny day!

Yup, this city has won my heart. It's going to take a lot to get me to leave at this point - regardless of the fine details.

In the months since I arrived in this amazing city...

I've moved into my first ever apartment.
I've travelled to Boston, New York City and Philadelphia to see Sloan. (More on that next time...).
I saw the Olympic Torch relay, Question Period, and the New Year ring in all at Parliament Hill.
I was laid off of the new call center job I got when I immediately arrived in September.
I had at least one nervous breakdown resulting in a trip to the hospital over the idea of being laid off in a city this far away from the familiarity of home. Didn't stay or anything, but I did get the ball rolling on therapy in my new town.
I celebrated my 25th birthday weekend by travelling to Toronto and Hamilton and having a long time dream come true. (Again, more on that another time...)
I was quickly hired on at another call center only to find out three months into it they want me to do telesales.
I volunteered for the first time for Westfest, a local free art and concert festival (Again, more on that another time...)
I lived through an earthquake - you know, my mom's number one fear if I had actually moved out west to Vancouver.
I - the daughter of a British immigrant and a recent passenger aboard Ships & Dip - celebrated my first Canada Day in Ottawa by watching Barenaked Ladies perform for HRH Queen Elizabeth on Parliament Hill.
I had several smaller breakdowns resulting in new bosses and new friends to question my ability to work and function as a member of society.
I organized and completed a cross-city move that included such complications as being completely overcharged by a certain truck rental company.

Needless to say, the only thing that's actually changed in my day-to-day life is the scenery and I found a few great places to hide when I need to fuck off and be by myself. Other than that, I'm still the confused and depressed young adult that I thought I was leaving behind in Sarnia.

The biggest problem I'm having though isn't the adjustment to independent living - it's the fact I've all but reverted into what feels like a recluse. All I've been doing for the past few months is work, commute to work, oversleep, and worry consistantly about money and figuring out how to make friends in this massive town. I don't have the resources I once did to vent about life's little troubles, so everything I'm experiencing for the first time is being experienced completely on my own, and so far (with the exception of some bright moments that I will get to another time) very little of what I'm trying to accomplish on an emotional shows absolutely no sign of resolution. I've been shutting people out, not participating in conversations because I absolutely don't want to look like a fucking idiot, and - probably worst of all - lamenting over folks I left back home.

Of course, I knew that this is exactly the situation I'd be getting myself into. I absolutely did not expect a complete intergration into new surroundings immediately, nor did I expect to find myself with little to no help in the mental illness department. After all, I was planning on moving to Vancouver, where I don't know a soul. At least here I had at least one friend, who introduced me to others, and eventually through work a small network grew. But, in the end, the acknowledgement of the hand I delt myself hasn't even come close to motovating me to start fresh with my attitude. So far, few in this extended Ottawa network knows the extent of my depression. I tried opening up to a few people, but I ended up feeling completely shameful for things I can't change, and I took about 20 steps backwards. I want to change, but until I can find the disapline to organize exactly needs to change, and I certainly don't have the time. After the layoff, the thought of being on my own without money or a job scared me into getting the first job I could find - which ended up being yet another call center with nine hour work days. Combine that with the new two hour commute to and from South Keys to Kanata, time to myself is now completely limited and, more often than not, I spend it sleeping. (For those who don't know Ottawa, I'm going from the extreme south of the city to the extreme west of the city, and I'm currently without a way to bypass a grand tour of Ottawa every day.) And regardless of how tempting it is to just slow it down and possibly look into a different line of work, I simply cannot risk living without paycheck, or with a low paycheck. I already shut myself in because I don't want people to offer to lend me money if I head out with friends. The last thing I need is the worry of not being able to pay my bills - or more importantly/selfishly, fund whatever next concert. As trivial as it is, live music in all it's forms has become my only release and is the only thing that truly makes me excited anymore. I need them, I need the money, I cannot stop.

Chris almighty, I'm a confused child.

But, I will try my hardest to see myself through. Regardless of how I am always in a state of distress, I still made the move from Sarnia, and I'm slowly, but surely, getting on with life. One of these days, everything will be sorted to a managable point.

And until that day comes, I'll try again to maintain this blog. God knows I need a relible release.

You Run Away (Indecision)

2010-07-27T20:39:00.021-04:00

Last night, I received an e-mail from Steven Page, informing me (and whoever else is on his mailing list) that his first solo album would be released at the end of September.

I want to be excited for the man, I really do, but in a very round about way, the whole situation with himself and Barenaked Ladies over the past two years closely mirrors something that is still painful for me to come to terms with; and it's made listening to the new BNL album and warming up to an album from Steve almost impossible.

And it all revolves around the most basic life events (that will always be complicated so long as I'm depressed): the loss of a friendship.

--

When the news broke, I was one of the millions of fans who only knew that him and Ed Robertson grew apart as songwriting partners and, with that dynamic gone and Steve wanting to do more of his own thing, the split was inevitable. I was OK with it I thought, but as I started to piece together rumours, and internalize "You Run Away", Barenaked Ladies' first single since the departure, it all became somewhat clear:

What happened between Steve and Ed sounds like what happened between me and Marie.

Marie was one of my best friends going through high school. She was the drummer in the school band, I was the bass player. For years, we were inseparable. We could do anything together - school projects, go on trips, concerts, talk art/music, anything - but everything changed when she became the first of our little group of friends to move out for school. Slowly but surely, things started to fray. When I went to see her on a few occasions while she was away at school, she began to get testy and almost territorial with her living spaces with me. But me being me, I just took it for what it was, and let most of what could have been really offensive comments fly. It wasn't until I went to see her in Halifax that I really snapped. She'd vented to me for at least an hour about what she was going through as a student and how I was making her mad for reasons I just didn't understand. I had my first panic attack with her as a witness becuase I thought I had seriously hurt her and I just didn't know how or why I did. She ran out of the room. She didn't know things had gotten that bad with the depression, and although we tried to patch it up later, it slowly became really apparent that she probably was never going to care. I bottled my emotions back up and just let her keep walking over me. I cared too much to let whatever friendship we had slip away.

A year and a half later, I had a third panic attack around her, and the embarrassment of having it happen led to smaller anxiety attacks, which caused me to tell her I had to cut ties with her.

It absolutely broke my heart to do it. My loyalty is every much a curse as it is a blessing for friends (whether they know it or not), and a year later, I still sometimes cry over the idea I lost one of my oldest friends because I just couldn't take the pain anymore. I'd finally got over most of the panic attacks associated with the ex, I didn't need another round of it.

I'm so ashamed, embarrassed, and it's probably all my fault I lost something that is such a rare commodity in my life.

--

When "You Run Away" came out, I cried. Never before have I heard a song so frank about basic loss without resolution. I didn't want anything to happen to the friendship between Marie and I, and I was willing to do just about anything to make sure it didn't disappear. I said things I probably shouldn't have and I overreacted over little things. All I know is that in the end I lost someone I cared for with all of my heart and there was no closure to the loss. If there's one thing I can't do, it's rest if there is no closure. With Marie, there was no closure. Last message I sent to her was around this time last year when I let her know I was moving. She told me to have a good life in Ottawa and not to contact her. She couldn't deal with whatever issues I was going through at the time.

When I read the lyrics to You Run Away, I can't help but feel for Ed. I know I'm in a minority in my circle, but my interpretation of it is this: The situation with Steve he alludes to is almost mirror image to what I went through with Marie. His intentions were good, he cared (and probably still does) for Steve, and was deeply concerned when news broke about the arrest; but when stress hits, so often good intentions end up turn into bad judgements and it ends up hurting so many in the process. You must remember: the stress of Steve's arrest wasn't the only thing Ed went through in the months leading up to the split. In addition to that turmoil, he crashed his plane, and he lost his mother, all of it within a time span of six months. And yet, through it all, the impression I got from both myself and speaking to others regarding their impressions of his behavior on the cruise is that he was the ringleader, the host - he basically ran the show. He put so much ahead of himself that for some fans, he may have come off as cold and tired of meeting with them. And really, what human wouldn't?

But that was the cruise. When it came to picking the first single, something tells me that it just all boiled down to getting what he needed to say out; because if he didn't, then there's no closure to the situation. The intention of the song: get out all out, on the table, once it's there, move on because the message he couldn't get through to Steve face to face my finally be delivered and Ed would have some peace. Of course, in retrospect, it was completely insensitive (even though it's not like the Halifax incident didn't carry on in very public blog entries immediately following my return home). Hardcore BNL fans know exactly what it's about and get envisions of what must have transpired between Steve and Ed. It made the split so real and it made me rethink how I was going to divide my loyalty - and when you're in the business of forgiving those around you, and refusing to choose sides, this is a big deal. It also doesn't help when you think it's about the break up of one of the most important bands ever to grace your CD collection. It was the Page/Robertson equivalent to the Lennon/McCartney fiasco that is "How Do You Sleep?"

But deep down, I know I can't be mad at Ed for what transpired. He needed to get it out in the most satisfying way a musician can - through song. It was painful, and God knows he's taken some backlash from it, but at least it's out and he can rest knowing that put that chapter to rest. Personally, I rarely have that luxury. When you care too much about those around you and how you're perceived to them, you do everything in your power to bottle the emotions - because you know that when you feel that you're that misunderstood, and you need to get it out, it can be so very fatal to whatever respect is left. I get extremely frustrated when I'm not heard or understood, but no matter how hard I try, I can never properly verbalize my needs. When the shit really hits the fan with my emotions and I allow myself to vent, I end up saying or doing something that either annoying the living crap out of those around me or making them angry to the point they want nothing to do with me.

And the thing is, I suppress so much not because I'm trying to win a popularity contest or anything. I just truly care and I've come to a point in my life where I'm finding I hate being alone. In this day and age, there are so few people who are actually interested in how their actions effect others. Whether it's the guy who calls customer care lines to complain and insult whoever picks up first, or person who talks down to you like your problems don't matter, either way, the population of the world is out for themselves. So I've become that person who listens to others, and make sure my actions don't ruin their day. Even the attempt to take things out on a blog can turn sour. As I said, things were said between me and Marie in blog entries. I knew I hurt her and it was a step back in my development as a writer - why write when my words are just going to hurt someone?

But of course, when an eruption is imminent, my judgement is always the first to go, and just like lava from a volcano, it all goes downhill from there.

In the end, I have come to the conclusion that I should just shut the fuck up. Nothing is resolved, my emotions are back to a canned state. I end up hiding from the world and questioning my very existence because I know that at any moment, someone will come down on me for something I've said or done out of an attempt to make things better for both me and others.

You know, instead of taking it out in song or something healthy, like Ed did.

--

I have yet to listen to the new Steve, nor have I actually listened to All in Good Time in it's entirety. It's not that I have no faith that either party can survive without each other - Steve is, no doubt, a very capiable musician, and BNL was never about just one songwriter or one voice - it's just that I'm scared that whatever Ed said in his song is going to have a strong rebuttal from his former partner (who can be even more damning as a songwriter). I know it's something so menial compared to what else happens in this world, but as I said earlier: this band means A LOT to me, and (as I also said) I care a lot when it comes to people's emotions. To see them in such disarray two years ago broke my heart and the salt of the break up just made it worse. As one person on at least one comment board said, it really does kind of feel like you're in the middle of a divorce. You support every single band member full heatedly in whatever decision they make, but you feel traitorous if you actually choose a side.

But in addition to this nervousness about the band's situation, it's hard to warm up to something that actually brings on memories of past panic. As much as I completely understand Ed and Steve's possible need to get whatever off their shoulders, when you see the worst of you reflected in such a public event, the pain is sometimes brought back ten fold.

And when you see your history repeating itself for the millionth time, the reminder isn't always welcome.

Underwhelmed

2009-07-30T20:28:00.003-04:00

This took a Hell of a lot longer than it should have, and it really didn't have to be nine pages long (according to Microsoft Word), but I hope it's worth it. It basically sums up why I'm obsessed with Sloan; and really, the reason it took me a good couple of months, is because I ended up seeing the band twice since the cruise - and when the entire thing revolves around live shows, it's only fitting I wait until the spree came to a rest.

Many thanks to Rainey for the proofread. Some two months of staring at this thing really drove me nuts in the editing department.

The relationship between a fan and their band is a scared one. The remembrance of the admiration can inspire the amateur musician to keep playing, or help the average individual focus on what is good in life and encourage them to take advantage of a well needed good time at a concert.

And if a fan is lucky, the memory of meeting their hero after can last a lifetime.

All of these elements apply to me with all my absolute favourite bands in some degree. My first love, the Beatles, and their fun and inspiring lyrics combined with the genius of Paul McCartney’s bass playing will forever keep me motivated. Once I tapped into the beauty of their existence way back when my first depression hit, the eventual lift was enough for me to go through a period when I actually enjoyed school. New found access to high school music classes provided me with the first drive to play the best I can, as I would never want to ruin the songs should I get around to covering them. Of the shows I have attended Barenaked Ladies, Great Big Sea, and the Trews all hold spots in my top 10. Barenaked Ladies gave such a good performance that my best friend has vowed to see them again regardless of the band’s line up. The jumping and the dancing at Great Big Sea’s performance at the John Labatt Centre in London, Ontario in November 2004 couldn't have come at a better time. The experience made an excellent mood lifter during the first few months of my bipolar treatment. The Trews are just too much fun in concert. With some of my other favourite artists, such as Our Lady Peace and Matthew Good, the comfort I find is in their lyrics. Matt’s bipolar-centric Hospital Music couldn’t have come out at a better time for me, and Raine Maida’s lyrics, no matter how seemingly dark, always provide a positive outlook when analyzed. As of July 2009, I have also had the opportunity to meet at least one member from each group making a “Best Story Ever” each time.

After saying all that, there is no band that has covered each base more thoroughly than Sloan. Their songs keep the musician in me thinking; their fun, simplistic lyrics keep me singing; and their melodies keep me dancing like nobody’s watching at every show of theirs I attend. They bring me nothing but small moments of peace in my battle with this stupid condition of mine.

Doesn’t hurt that the unofficial spokesman of the group is probably oblivious to just how much he’s helping me break out of my cocoon, one show at a time.

~*~

Before I continue, one has to remember four things:

Sloan is not my absolute favourite band of all time. No matter what I say, the Beatles will always reign supreme. So. There.
For the past four years, I’ve been working at a job that allows me to listen to music, providing it’s through headphones.
I have been clinically depressed my entire adult life; and I wouldn't wish the anxiety and panic that comes with it on Hitler. It’s that bad.
The last time I played bass publicly was six months before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder – which was back in December 2004.

Thus begins the chronicle of my hero worship of Christopher Michael Murphy. It is a long, pathetic, and never-ending story that magnifies all the issues I have with this fucking anxiety problem of mine.

Because there was no way in hell that I was going to let my teacher put me on an instrument that wasn’t “Rock and Roll,” I refused to leave the room until I was given access to one of the school’s bass guitars, and since that time I have been playing bass for about 10 years. By default, my earliest influence was Sir Paul McCartney, and after years of studying both his songwriting, and his skills as a musician, my respect has grown ten fold. His complexity as a bassist does not come from an aggressive style of playing; rather it comes from a very subtle inner sense of careful and consistent melody. When you listen to Beatle songs – for example Dear Prudence or Something – there always seems to be a secondary tune somewhere, and when factoring in a warm presence to his tone one cannot help but begin to hum along to whatever extra Paul has added to the song.

After years of similar analysis, Chris took the number two spot in my books ages ago, and in my opinion, his style is almost identical to Sir Paul himself. By far, his bass lines are one of the biggest factors that made me come to the conclusion that Sloan is Canada's answer to the Fab Four. Chris is the rock star of the group without a doubt, and while performing he wears his influences (an example being that he has the Mick Jagger “cock walk” down pat). Instead of drawing on a common punk style that relies on a single riff to give the song character that he could have adapted along side his ‘90’s counterparts, he's extremely melodic, and although his style is not flashy by any means, he always seems to compliment the vocalist, and is present enough to carry the melody should the song require the need to do so. Think of it like his own brand of thought-out finesse, which is something that I appreciate in any musician. This brand of finesse can be found throughout their song catalogue, from the vintage sounding ballads (If I Could Change Your Mind, Cheap Champaign, Your Dreams Have Come True, Coax Me), to the harder songs with powerful yet top notch craftsmanship (She Says What She Means and All Used Up).

Further technical research provided a single chain of coincidental facts that solidified my connection between the identical styles of the two musicians. I never knew short scale basses existed until I saw Chris’ beautiful Fender Mustang (and to be honest, sometimes I don't know what I've got the bigger crush on: the musician, or the guitar), however what I never realized is the whole time I admired the Beatles, McCartney played a short scale Hofner Violin bass. For both Sloan and the Beatles, the bass tone is always soft, very warm, the furthest thing from aggressive, but it becomes the key to completing the tune. It’s just right – and it’s what I’m looking for in a bass sound. Needless to say, the first bass I received for my very own was a generic student model of a short scale bass.

Most important, despite their commonalities in sound, Chris and Sir Paul are set decades and miles apart in the terms of where their influence truly lies within my evolution as a bassist. McCartney, although quite the pioneer of evolving bass sound and technique is highly influential, is representational of his own generation of British Invaders. With Chris, however, I can enjoy the idea that I have found a bassist who’s completely representative of my generation of Canadian independent rockers, while simultaneously demonstrating the vintage style I grew up with. Instead of having to rely on common alternative, punk, and emo players who sound like they’re just trying to keep a place in a band that creates shallow music for the masses, I have found a de facto front man of a roll model who’s both true to his roots, and is passionately committed to his goals as an artist. Through his passion he would be more than willing not only to defend those goals, but also his band, and the fans that follow them.

Bonus, he’s kind of cute.

But it was one single moment back on a sunny Saturday afternoon in 2002 that cemented my love for this bass player; and would drive me artistically for years to come.

Being quite new to Sloan's music at the time, I didn't recognize a lot of what they were playing, so only songs I recognized were off of the album Pretty Together. But I did have general knowledge of what their past hits were, and I knew they had a song called Underwhelemd; so when they started in on Underwhelmed, I knew what they were playing.

Then it happened: right in the middle of the song, the bass player (who I would eventually come to know as Christopher Michael Murphy) plucked some kid from the audience, gave him the bass, and basically told him to go to town.

BANDS DO THAT?!

EUREKA!

Although I took this story with me to both to the show of theirs I attended back in 2006, and the cruise I took earlier in this year, it would still take me eight years and seven shows to speak up and finally take advantage of a chance to just talk bass - asking to play will forever have to be saved for another show.

~*~

I’ve technically met Chris seven times; with five of those times being within a span of six months, and four times spanning five days. What can I say? The guy doesn’t take a break before signing autographs, and literally jumps off the stage to speak to the audience afterwards (does not pass "Go," does not collect $200). The man is my hero, so why pass up the chance to say hi (again)?

The first time I met him, it was on October 11th, 2006, at the now defunct Woody’s Beach Bar in Sarnia. Discussing bass playing was right out at the time because there were other fans who wanted a bit of time with the big rock star and I became too preoccupied with trying to find a legal way out of the mini-crowd surrounding Chris. The only reason I hung around him as much as I did that night was because I got barked at by roadies every time I tried to step onto the P.A. boxes to leave the area. Chris thinking otherwise offered to sign my vinyl copy of Pretty Together; even though he didn’t have to as he had just signed my shirt. But, I took the gesture for what it was: an extra personal touch to an already awestruck fan. Loving the band too much to quit going to their concerts, I took the disappointment of not being able to play/talk to him properly about his playing in stride knowing there was going to be a next time.

At the time I had no idea that this “next time” would ultimately prove to be one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever encountered since my diagnosis.

Fast forward about three years to February 1st, 2009, and Barenaked Ladies’ Ships & Dip V Caribbean cruise. The cruise, although absolutely spectacular in every way for this globetrotting music geek, the entire week was spent struggling to find some kind of compromise between the comforts of being in my element. My amplified anxiety of being in close proximity to at least 10 artists I’ve worshiped for years, caused some massive stress – and with Chris being the most respected of them all, when given the chance where I could and should have spoken up, I just froze. When I actually got the chance to speak with Chris, I ended up making too much of an idiot of myself by stuttering, avoiding eye contact, and annoying him by taking far too long to snap pictures of him and other fans, due to my hands shaking so much. Overall, it felt like he was speaking down to me; which was absolutely not his fault at all, as I tend to overreact when placed in stressful circumstances. Quite frankly, the only thing stopping the situation from feeling like a full on panic attack was the fact this wasn’t my ex-boyfriend I was talking to – it was my fucking idol. I was scared and embarrassed to death, and I didn’t know how to take it or how to speak up.

The only time I would ever have the ability to fully explain my admiration properly would have been beyond the shows, when I could have possibly allowed myself to learn to calm down while speaking; but I just wasn’t going to do that. If anxiety wasn’t getting the best of me, etiquette, and the fear of being labeled a stalker, did. Where as a lot of people I know would insist that $2,000 entitles me to at least an hour of any given performer’s time everyday I was on the boat, I refuse to be that selfish. Good manners are always a top priority for me, and in general my personal rule as a concert goer is to keep autographs, conversations, photos, and general fan annoyances contained within a two hour time span after the show. On the cruise, regardless of the close proximity to the musicians I was there to see, it was doubly so because Chris was on vacation (of sorts) just as much as I was; which made approaching him completely unacceptable. Of course, on at least one occasion was my vow of fan silence was broken, as my interaction rule was exempt when it came to elevators. It’s always nice to greet whomever you’re sharing that box of transport from floor A to floor B with – even if it just so happens to be Chris and his little boy. God that was the longest 10 seconds of my life.

I ended up leaving the cruise with a deep emptiness and refusing to forgive myself for my unintelligent behaviour – regardless of how much of it was clearly by-product of the bipolar. In spite of of this distress, I finally woke up that week. Not only am I Hell bent and determined to one day play with Sloan, but I’ve become Hell bent on addressing all the issues I brought up on the cruise and putting them to bed once and for all. Almost all my emotions on the boat mimicked those of when I finally decided to get help; and instead of remembering how generally over them I am at home, I became a coward and it ruined at least half of my entire vacation.

Immediately after returning home, I began making my attempts to improve my attitude towards my actions by looking back on the cruise. I remembered that no mater what, I still was able to speak with Chris on several occasions, and each time got progressively better though often embarrassing. It’s special to know I was still given an ounce of his time to tell him I signed up for the cruise after I’d learned BNL had added his band to the line up, and give him the heads up on what the new crowds thought of the band.

When I think hard enough about what attention I was able to achieve, I realize that he provided the single best memory of any trip I’ve ever taken. During the last show, and before I had to skip out to see Barenaked Ladies, they finally got to the one fan favourite every Sloan fan hopes to hear at some point live – Underwhelmed. Although I had made sure to learn it after Bayfest, it really isn’t my favourite song in the catalog. The bass in it was far too easy to learn, and in general is repetitive; but even I know how fun it is to hear it live. During the song, he passed his stunning Mustang off to their keyboardist, Gregory, (jealous) so he could venture into the audience to let the long time fans sing. (All five or six of us, including the guys from the Odds.) The line I got to sing: “I told her that I don’t smoke or drink/she told me to loosen up on the way to the LC.” It’s still not my favourite song, and I didn’t get to play like I’d been hoping, but I knew it was something small to delay episodes at work on a night that was the last night before my generally positive state of mind would descend into post-vacation blues, and I would begin to pray again for the next time.

As it would turn out, I didn’t even step back into work from the cruise when I found out my next time would come in six weeks.

~*~

Yeah, a next time I completely wasted relying on a hope for luck.

When the show in Sarnia was announced for March 14th, 2009 at the Industry Theatre, my pessimistic mind automatically knew the worst case scenario was that Chris would think I’m stalking the band (wrong in any capacity.). I had to work that day and the Industry shares a parking lot with both my office, and the small shopping center I frequent for tea and donuts on my break; and have to pass by in order to get to the bus – which parks directly in front of the stage doors. A lucky “before the show” meeting didn’t happen, and not seeing Chris before the show meant that I couldn’t come right out and ask if there was any way I’d be able to play with them. I ended up making sure I enjoyed what was to technically be my fourth show from the group in less than two months. Once I began to let myself get lost in the memory of the last show on the cruise; I realized that no matter my disappointment level, Chris once again came to the rescue. When finally coming to my side of the stage, he recognized me. That alone would have given me enough of a special vibe to add to my memory bank; but I wasn’t the only thing he remembered. From the stage, my hero knew why I took very silly little pause during the second verse of Underwhelmed to take in a single lyric.

My hero not only remembered me, but he remembered my moment.

When he and I got around to talking about the cruise after the show, he teased and attempted to embarrass me once I admitted to taking part in the naked photo op, and although I had brought my mom (Hey, she showed interest in my favourite little band that could!) by then, I just didn’t care. He remembered me, and I couldn’t care any less about what was and what wasn't discussed during the conversation.*

After a great deal of thought, I actually have come to the conclusion it was probably a good thing I didn’t make the formal request for a shot on stage. After all, it would be a hometown crowd for me, and if I’m going to make that much of a triumphant return to the stage, I really would like it to be as far away from Sarnia as possible. Who knows how many folks in the audience actually knew me and how enthusiastic I once was about the idea of going away to school for music. The embarrassment would be ten fold to the awkwardness about discussing public nudity in front of my mother: At least, that’s what I tell myself when I fill my head with thoughts of the shame of not being able to tell him why I am the fan that I am. Maybe next time…

(*Ironically, the first issue of Chart magazine I ever bought had a feature: "Are You a Psycho Sloan Fan?” Back then, being a relatively new fan, I didn't even come close to breaking a pass; but when I revisited after I got home from the cruise. I couldn't help but laugh at one question:

12) Give yourself 1 point for each of the following statements that are true:
...
C) Chris Murphy has insulted, teased, or made fun of you to your face at some point.

It’s going to be a vicious, vicious cycle before my dream is fulfilled; but I love the guy anyway.)

~*~

That next time, and the final chapter of this saga came sooner than expected.

On the cruise, I befriended a girl named Rainey and her roommate Brad, both hailing from Ottawa. Rainey was specifically on board for Barenaked Ladies, the Odds and to a lesser extent, Sloan. Having always been a casual Sloan fan, she had never gotten the chance to see them live and needless to say, she was sold on the first song. Because of her amazement of the shows she saw on the boat, subsequent MSN and Twitter conversations have been generally Sloan centric; and we began to make it a point to see if we could meet up at a show in the near future, and make it our fifth concert this year.

That opportunity came on June 20, 2009. With Ottawa being a good 10 hour drive from Sarnia, the only sensible place to meet up would be anywhere in the general Toronto area; so when we heard of a free show in Burlington at the Sound of Music festival, we agreed to make that show our first post-cruise meet up.

As expected, the show came with an acknowledgement from Chris that Ships & Dips V was well represented in the front row. The high stage, and the fact that there was no sight of the band before the show equalled that of a snowball’s chance in Hell that I was getting up to perform with them, not that it really mattered in the first place - Underwhelmed was omitted from the set list.

I was however going to make sure that this time was different. There was no fucking way I was leaving this show without at least getting a conversation started and even if I didn’t get to play, at least I’d get to have the conversation I’ve been dying to have with ANY bassist, let alone my iconic one. Although Twitter hints from a one Patrick Pentland are awesome, and keep my mind from wandering down a destructive path on Saturday afternoons, nothing would ever beat a well rounded discussion with Chris Murphy regarding our shared weapon of choice.

After noticing he didn’t come down off the stage, my crew of Sloan admirers began walking to the backstage area, where we found Chris signing autographs for a mob of other Sloan admirers. When he got down the barrier to us to chat about cruise related stuff, I didn’t speak up immediately; but eventually I said:

“You’ll have to remember to tell Patrick thank you for answering my questions I keep asking about the bass playing in your songs.”

A good 45 minutes had passed when Jay Ferguson had come over to drag the bass player away from us. In that time, we had managed to discuss with the following:

Influences, which then lead to a mini-argument about the worth of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (he hates it, I don’t)
Was given the hint to review the Who’s performance of Young Man Blues off their Live at Leeds album before attempting Sensory Deprivation again
Was told NOT to go to KISS at Bayfest (Advice welcomed!)
Was also told NOT to see the Who (Advice too late - saw them just over two weeks before the Sloan show at Woody's)
After overhearing a conversation about Michael Cera, we almost got on the topic of Arrested Development
He recanted a story about how he and a couple of friends did a joke performance for his hockey league inspired by the Bee Gees and the movie Weekend at Bernie’s.
We were officially dubbed the “Sloan Nerds”.

It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but my right to complain vanished along side the fear that’d built up so severely on the cruise. It was finally the conversation I wanted to have about music, with the man I wanted to have it with; and not once during the discussion did I experience anxiety, or feel completely incoherent. It was almost as if I completely forgot exactly who I was talking to.

For 45 minutes, my chronic insecurity was gone. So what if I didn’t get to play.

~*~

In between the show in 2002, and my next show in 2006, while hitching a ride home with a co-worker one night, we got on the topic of music. I chimed in that all night, I was listening to Sloan; and before I could get into any detail as to why I think they are awesome, my co-worker interrupted to say “Those guys are assholes.”

Not going to lie, for a brief moment, I took his comment to heart, and this was before the reintroduction of the live Sloan performance into my memory, before I met any of them. At the time, I only knew that I’d come to depend on the music to give me an ounce of the boost I once had in school, and really couldn’t give two shits what they were like as people. So the comment eventually fell on deaf ears – and I knew my comments would also suffer the same fate, so I just shut up from there.

In the end, my experience with Chris Murphy will forever trump everything he – or anyone else - says about the band.

I know this whole thing might seem a little cheesy; but the bottom line is with every show I attend, and am able to have a few words with Chris, more and more fuel is added to my drive to lay everything to rest. My anxiety, my embarrassment, my shame; one by one, these walls are coming down. If I’m not getting used to dealing with the extreme emotion of being around heroes, I’m learning how to speak clearly in stressful situations. Most importantly, I’m learning ever so slowly to speak up.

And so I'm back at square one: wishing and hoping for another Sloan show – my sixth for the year and my eighth total. I've received word that they're playing V-Fest in Barrie at the end of August, though it probably won’t happen. Barrie doesn't have a train station, Sarnia doesn't have a Greyhound station, and the cheapest lodgings I'd be able to find would be the camping that's offered.

The idea of playing along side the band is still extremely important. It’s been five years since all went to Hell and performance went by the wayside. I'm dying to play again, and my inner diva refuses to find a spot here in town. My history is too troubled here, and for some reason I’ve convinced myself that the only way to truly breakout of my shell is to just go for it in a big way – like in front of professional rock stars for example. A bit ambitious you might think, but considering it was the next level at the time I had to put down my guitar full time to focus on keeping a job not exactly meant for the mentally unstable, I feel I owe it to myself to begin again where I left off. I was once preparing to audition for Humber College, and immerse myself in the enormous Toronto music scene; however, five years later, at age 24, I’ve reverted back to taking private music lessons. I figure taking the step way back is the least I can do while waiting for my life to begin again.

At this point, even if it never happens, it doesn’t matter. I don’t ever want to be one of those fans who seem to think they have the superiority over their favourite artists. They think that because they support a band they deserve nothing but the best one-on-one experience; but at the end of the day, the only person who’s indebted to anybody in this equation is me. Its one thing for me to get the opportunity to experience a stage, but it’s a whole different ball game for me to have the opportunity to experience life in times when hope is all but gone.

Thank you, Chris.

(PS: Yes, this was posted after this wake up call to get this thing done once and for all. Get well all the same!)

Sinking Ships

2009-07-12T14:18:00.002-04:00

'K, so it's been awhile. The God honest truth is that I'm working on four massive entries that center around my obsession with Sloan and how it relates to just about everything in my life. I'm not even half done, and I didn't want to post anything until they were complete. This one, however, is complete and, not to be vain, one of my favourite things I've ever written.

I forget what day it was, and I forget where I was going. All I know is that I was wearing my bathing suit over top of my black Capri’s, carrying my brand new Jay&Chris&Patrick&Andrew tote bag; and I wanted to use the elevator.

The Andrew, whose name is inscribed on the bag, wanted to use it too.

I took one look at him in the eye, and decided to walk away and try the elevator again later.

I don't know what's worse: the idea I let panic win again, or the idea that I probably came off as completely and utterly rude.

~*~

After a particularly rough summer involving massive amounts of loneliness, isolation, and crying episodes that were almost consistent enough to tentatively schedule when they were going to occur within a one to two day basis, I knew my mini-excursion to England was going to help, but it was unlikely to be enough. So I made it a point to start planning something new again as soon as possible.

That something, of course, became the cruise. I’d known Barenaked Ladies have been organizing this thing for years now, and I vowed to one year attend; but I just wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have more that one reason to go. The first year, it would have only been BNL, but then the next year, the temptation began when they added Great Big Sea to the line up. It was looking like my dream festival line up, but I couldn’t let my final decision rely on two bands. For all I know, they’d be the only two bands I’d end up enjoying, and some $2,000 would go to waste. When they announced the BNL/GBS team up again for the 2009 edition, again, the temptation returned, but also again, I knew it might not be worth my while.

Then they added Sloan.

Then I took into consideration that, over the five years I’ve been dealing with the shit hand I’ve been dealt with in life, I have traveled to new one US state (Michigan never counts), two provinces/three major Canadian cities, and four European countries – and then one second visit to one of them. Why not add a Caribbean cruise to the list? Why not add Mexico and the Bahamas to the list? Why not step foot in Miami? Why not do it while enjoying the music of my heroes?

Why not finally allow myself a reason to acknowledge and celebrate what accomplishments I’ve earned in these past few years?

SOLD!

By the time it came to embark on my latest adventure, it truly became a beacon of light in yet another rough patch. In the four months leading up to it, I couldn’t go more than a day or two without crying, I started having panic attacks when associating with my best friend, and, for the first time in three years, I got myself on a day shift – the transition didn’t help matters. I needed the trip; so I got on the plane in Detroit with the attitude that I was putting everything behind me, hopefully once in for all; and if it all returned after I got home, than at least I would have made a valiant effort to change things.

I didn’t even step foot on the boat before I froze solid at sight of both Jim Creeggan and Ed Robertson checking in right behind me in line. The shaking began as soon as I got on the boat when the emotional scale of what I got myself into hit.

It felt like the same old pain.

~*~

When you focus in on the musicality of the two bands, for the most part, the similarities between Sloan and the Beatles are quite spectacular. The raw pop rock style, the simplistic, but extremely effective instrumentation. In my opinion, there are only about three very distinct differences between the groups. The first one, of course, being that the Ferguson/Murphy/Pentland/Scott songwriting credit doesn’t come within a country mile of the Lennon/McCartney. No mater how good Sloan is, when the third best songwriter in any given band is George Harrison, its game, set and match. The second differences are your basic technicalities: Halifax is 2722.07 kilometers from Liverpool; Underwhelmed came out some 30 years after Love Me Do, total worldwide album sales (shame that it’s not even close), etc, etc.

The third difference: You can actually argue that Sloan’s drummer has written some of the best songs they’ve ever released.

Although Richard Starkey is extremely underappreciated for his contributions to Rock and Roll (he may not be fancy, but he did provide, flawlessly, the greatest and most important backbeat in the history of modern music), even I can admit that the iconic percussionist known to the rest of the world as Ringo, just isn't in the same creative league as his band mates.

In contrast, the bottom line is Andrew Scott is a fucking genius and, quite frankly, his skill as a musician far surpasses the overall talents of Ringo. I actually quit comparing ages ago – it’s just useless and completely unfair to Ringo and what he did contribute. I don’t think I have ever heard songs that unique, within Sloan and otherwise. Much like the rest of the group, Andrews songs generally sound like they're better suited for AM radio than compact disc; but where he sticks out as a songwriter is in his constant strive for variety and originality.

His compositions are always some kind fusion between jazz, blues, classic rock, and, on occasion, I pick out a pinch of R&B. On the Horizon is probably the best song to illustrate this point. The horns sound like they were ripped from Henry Mancini, the harmonies are reminiscent of stuff I’ve heard in countless Beach Boys song, and the overall composition sounds like something out of 1960’s Detroit. But then, on the other hand, you’ve got a song like A Side Wins, which adds to my determination that his band is the closest thing to the Beatles since, well, the Beatles. Again, the song is a blend of the two completely different, yet complimentary song writing styles of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. In fact, in my opinion, it almost sounds like the love child of I’m Only Sleeping, and Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey. When you look at his contribution to the group’s overall style, his songs are the probably the ones that give Sloan their very own and unique vintage sound my guitar teacher was thoroughly impressed with when I introduced them to him. Andrew is the only one I see venture, ever so slightly, into genres beyond the ones specific to Sloan. Where as Patrick Pentland and Chris Murphy stick close to their punk/metal/hardcore roots and Jay Ferguson generally keeps within a classic power-pop safe zone, Andrew is not afraid to stir things up every once in a while. In the case of his four songs on Parallel Play, he goes from a traditional punk vibe in Emergency 911, to the psychidelicia of The Dogs, to Down in the Basement, which was ripped from 1960’s Greenwich, New York, and in the case of Too Many, it’s just pure ska. Like, who would think that level of diversity could come out of what is essentially the world’s greatest indie garage band?

Instrument wise, the only reason a casual would label Andrew as being Sloan’s closest possible answer to Ringo, is because he’s the predominant drummer. In my case, after careful observance, will admit that I do find that I hear a degree of Ringo in his playing, especially with some songs by Chris (very soft and slick fills against a warm bass line, sounds very White Album – see Autobiography for the example), and I can’t help but take notice of the fact that his drum set up generally consists of little more than one snare, one tom, one floor tom, a bass drum, a high-hat and a cymbal - not much more than Ringo. But that’s it. Listening further into his playing, it’s almost like he’s always got Keith Moon on the mind. Then, to top it off, I learned very quickly that, completely unlike a lot of drummers (never mind Ringo), I witness a well rounded musician every time Chris surrenders his bass duties to Jay, and takes over the drum kit; so that Andrew can grab his own guitar and take the spotlight. Totally helped maters when a quick message through Twitter informed me that he pretty much plays everything when recording his own songs, including all bass parts – that means that despite my absolute love for everything Chris Murphy, the reality is my favourite bass line in the entire Sloan catalogue wasn’t played by Chris. Nope, Sensory Deprivation is Andrew’s; therefore, it’s him I have to generally blame for my love/hate relationship in actually trying to learn it.

And that, my friends, all comes from a drummer.

He doesn't fit any mold. He's his own musician, and not one soul comes even remotely close to his diversity – a quality I strive to accomplish as a person every single day of my life.

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: Andrew Scott is a fucking genius.

Too bad I was too rude to tell him all that.

~*~

Think of the last time you someone scared the shit out of you using a joke that was completely insensitive towards you, and they knew it. Now think of the last time you cried - like really fucking cried - and everything that came with it. The sadness that made you start to begin with, how long it took you to stop, the energy wasted to make the episode go away, the nap you had to take as soon as you got the chance; and finally the embarrassment of crying at all, let alone to the degree that you did. Think of that almost every day for five years.

It still feels like only yesterday when I last had a full on panic attack that lead to me to pass out very publicly. Even now, after at least a year since I had my last severe attack and the worst of my anxiety subsided, I'm living day to day under a cloud of embarrassment that I'm still prone to act that way in public which has caused me to become downright anti-social sometimes. I've always been kind of shy, but since my breakdown, I've been a thousand times more self conscious, and I hate to think of just what that turned me into.

The week on the cruise ship was spent with a consistent need to want to hide. When I couldn’t, my eyes were to the floor. I barely ate, I was either too scared to be in at the buffet, and when I’m that severely anxious, I don’t eat. It’s a miracle I made friends, because I couldn’t even socialize like I know I can. Other than the front row at the Sloan shows, my favourite places to be were the Blue Lagoon at 2:30am and my cabin.

The reaction to the situation almost completely mimicked the panic that I thought I had finally beaten. It never registered that unease is generally to be expected with the level of personal overload. Should I have had recognized that, and obtained the courage to actually get in that fucking elevator, it probably would have led to one of the most in depth conversations about music I would ever have. To learn ignore the anxiety, actually talk casually to a professional, and get insight into the technical aspects of playing would have made the experience so full circle.

I’ve come to a point in my life were I know there is no excuse for ignorance. No mater how much I may gush over the idea that this guy is that much of fucking genius, he’s just a guy; and I’m left with a negative and worked up state of mind that can’t get over how rude I was to someone who was really, just another passenger. Completely run off at the sight of someone? Who fucking does that?! Oh, wait. I do. Sadly, Andrew wasn’t the only person I’ve looked in the eye and run off from. I let myself give him the same reaction as I do my asshole ex-boyfriend.

In the end though, although I’ll probably never feel positive about what was ultimately learned, I did gain valuable insight into what is still wrong with me since breaking up with my ex – and now it’s time to fix it.

~*~

The really sad thing is the fact that, even after taking three days to spill it, there’s no doubt in my mind any future meetings between me and the drummer will lead to a confirmation that I’m totally getting worked up over nothing. Watch him not remember me at all.

Fucking anxiety.

24 on the 24th day of the 4th month

2009-04-27T01:18:00.005-04:00

In Chinese culture, the number four is their equivalent to our number 13. In some dialects, the pronunciation is similar to their word for death, so some avoid it like the plague.

I was born April 24th, 1985. Now, that in particular group of numbers would probably equal some degree of bad luck in China; but as it would happen, every 5 years, my birthday lands with some combination of at least three fours, either in the actual date itself combining either the year or the age number or in the idea that it had been four years since the last occurrence. Some would say it's kind of stupid that one would be this superstitious about the idea of keeping an eye out for some degree of bad luck; but the strange thing for me is, when I look back on it, it seems like my manic and depressive episodes are like clockwork.

Going back 15 years ago, I turned 9 on April 24, 1994. Yes, it was a while back, but my even earliest memories of the time do not recall anything truly happy about it. Starting in grade 3, the next five years of my life would be a virtual nightmare; filled with massive of teasing from classmates, the type of teachers who are immortalized in Pink Floyd's the Wall, and a feeling of emptiness nobody else seemed to notice. The only positive thing that carried me through the time was my new found obsession with the Beatles. Once the Beatles come into my life permanently, piano lessons, and any artistic project I could get my hands on would follow - when I wasn't doing math corrections, that is

That five year period of complete and utter Hell began to come to a close on exactly the day I turned 14 –the day in which I bought Barenaked Ladies' Stunt on cassette. The following chain of events occurred within 18 months of April 24, 1999:

- I graduated from elementary school (AKA that Hell hole)
- Started high school and met people who respected me without question
- Talked my school music teacher into letting me learn bass as my instruments; within 6 weeks, I was playing stuff from the back of the book
- moved from my childhood home in the county to the city
- went to my first major concert (Matthew Good Band at Bayfest)

Fact is that the only real shitty thing on that list was the moving business. (Didn't like the change one bit.) Going forward from there, I kept a pretty good state of mind for a good few years; save a few wired moments, and the anxiety I got when my friends fought. (Signs of the future, perhaps?) I was in a good place artistically. I always had at least six projects going at once, either with the bands at school, or with something at the theatre. Most important, I went to at least 20 concerts, some of which solidified my love for my now absolute favorites.

Again, like clockwork, date of the end of this definite mania can be determined by means of remembering the superstition. Four years later, on April 24th 2004, I celebrated my 19th with Adam by my side...I'm going to assume you know the final out come of that chapter, and the events that followed.

So that brings me up to this birthday - 24 on the 24th day of the 4th month of the year 2009 - and there's no denying that things seem to be looking up finally. I mean, I don't want to jinx it, but I seem to remember that the last time I spent my birthday at the theatre was back in 2004...and you know what happened. It actually took me three days to log on to my bog to bitch about my birthday, because I had nothing to bitch about. I don't even feel the need to drink this year, not even at cast parties. And instead of having a voice inside tell me I shouldn't get used to the sudden onslaught of joy, I said 'Fuck it, I'm going to enjoy the day, dammit!’ And with that, I entered the theatre and enjoyed birthday cake courtesy of the cast and crew of Lost in Yonkers

So maybe this Chinese curse that has taken up residence in this young Canadian is subsiding for the time being. As negative as it sounds, I should probably take the new clearer state of mind and run with it. I've got five years before my birthday occurs on 24th day of the 4th month of the year 2014. Don't want to waste what's given to me, do I?

Things I learned on Ships & Dip V

2009-04-21T01:00:00.006-04:00

Been a while. Then again, that's generally my fault. I've actually been feeling good; and it's a little bit of a shame, because I ended up not providing a decent entry on my most recent adventure - that adventure being the cruise.

Well, I did end up providing very detailed individual stories along side my photos on my Flickr page; and I was thinking of re-posting the kind the best story from each day, but that would just be repetitive. That's probably the main reason it took me so long to get my ass to Blogger to write something properly - all my stories are generally out. But in the almost three months since arriving home, I've actual come to realise that there is more to write about - because the reality is, I've come to realise that I learned more about myself during that week away, then during any other vacation/excursion I've taken since crashing five years ago. Some are positive, some are negative, some are trivial, and all gave me a better understanding of what I needed to learn, and I will make it a point to apply going forward.

Here are my top five lessons learned:

5) Following my musical instincts will always pay off
I just knew I would have kicked myself if I didn't go. The combo of the line up and just the idea of my sixth excursion since I crashed would have been enough to get me frustrated with life.

In going, I got to see shows by some of my favourite musicians of all time, all of which I haven't seen in concert in years, have the pleasure of getting away for a week to find the closest thing to heaven in a vacation, enjoy some new bands, and see my heros in performances I will probably never see again.

To see Great Big Sea during their sail away show was fantastic. The gazebo of a stage with the horrible lighting was only a foot off the ground, but regardless how I was in full view of the Newfoundlanders, vertical movement was the name of my dancing. The second show of theirs I saw just didn't come close. It probably had something to do with the rough sea and the rocking of the boat (and the motion sickness that followed). But that show on the pool deck was just perfect.

The last Sloan show of the cruise has gone down in my record books as the best concert I have ever attended; and the most glorious thing I have ever seen in my life. It took place in the main Vegas-esque lounge, where the performance/dance floor looked like it belonged in a wedding reception hall. The stage was only maybe half a foot off the ground and only fit Patrick Pentland's wall of amps, the drum kit and the keyboards. Other than that, the guitars were on the dance floor; and the only reason I had to look up was when Chris came over to let me sing a line from Underwhelmed - I'm 4'11, he has to be at least '6. Yes, I had to look up/stand on my tip toes to reach his microphone. It actually kind of looked like they were playing in a high school drama room, and it felt like I had them all to myself in a kind of VIP performance. My favourite band in the world (that's not the Beatles), that close, that intimate. It will take a Hell of a lot for any band/artist (including Sloan themselves) to top that.

Most importantly of all, something deep inside was telling me something would happen at the last BNL show of the cruise that I would regret not seeing. I had to leave that the last Sloan show early, so as to not miss a thing. It'd had been some five long years since I'd seen just a full out BNL show. Yes, the opening sail away acoustic performance was awesome, and the Snacktime kids matinee was absolutely brilliant, but to see BNL in absolute classic form was what I was there for. Thing is, a gut feeling went into full gear when they took their final bow that night. Something didn't feel right in this quirky little band that changed my life, and I felt the need to be honoured that I made it to the show.

It would be not even a month after getting home that this news would drop.

4) Sometimes the absolute most embarrassing moments in life are the best moments
We all have them, those moments in life that you always look back on and immediately flush more than you did when the event actually took place. More often than not, with me and my screwy self esteem, I have more of a tendency to dwell on the negative aspect of it. But the stories I have to tell from the cruise are the first in which I was able to see the moments of pride hidden in within the stories; and have used them to my advantage while at work.

Here’s my example:

After thoroughly embarrassing myself while trying to take photos of friends with Chris Murphy, (Maggie's smaller-than-my-hand camera + one very scared little amateur bass player = four very blurred photos and one very frustrated [and considerably taller] professional bass player) I decided to take up Brad’s suggestion to enjoy the Odds from the comfort of the hot tub.

That's where the problems started.

It was just my luck that I decided to vacation in the Caribbean during a particularly unseasonably cold spell for the region. Of course, I was not going to let the cold prevent me from enjoying the very cleshe activity. (When in Rome...) To add to my neivity, I decided that I would try to keep my face above water as much as possible, so that I could be lazy and forgo removing my eye makeup when I went to change. So off I went, got into my bathing suit and not taking off my eyemakeup...froze on my way from the elevator to the tub, and got into what turned out to be one not-so-hot tub. Like, seriously, I don't know what it was, but to me, it was like bath water, and bath water just didn't help in the fight against the wind on deck. Try as hard as I could, I could not warm myself up in that fucking tub.

I was not looking forward to getting out, and for good reason too. The wind against bitterly cold skin was NOT pleasant. (Think of the worst windchill in the dead of winter. THAT'S what it was like.) I had my house coat and a super thick towel and NOTHING was going to help me. But eventually I was going to have to get out; so I waited for the Odds to finish to make my run for it...

As fate would have it, Mr. Murphy would not be the only hero I would mingle with (if you will) that night. Just my luck, it just had to be in that stinking elevator that I would finally, after 10+ years of hero worship, meet a Barenaked Ladie...and not just any Barenaked Ladie. No, it had to be Ed-Fucking-Robertson, didn't it? It would have been a different story of embarrassment had it been Steve, Jim, Kevin or Tyler; but no, I was in an excruciatingly slow elevator, with my idol. Didn't help that the elevator was walled with mirrors - the first thing that stared at me when I got in was the human equivalent of a drowned raccoon. But none the less, I stuck to my rules, said hi to him all the same as I would anybody else in the elevator, shook his hand, and in 15 seconds, it was over.

My point: I wrote that entire story using the MemoPad on my BlackBerry in public, shortly after coming close to an episode at work. The only thing folks would have noticed about my face is the gigantic smile across it, and not the telltale signs of the embarrassment. Even when things began to look like it was about to go downhill during my day, it was how to tell this story of how I met this legend of Canadian music (or as I refer to him as MY HERO!) that brought me out of it. That what counts the most.

So what if I looked like Hell. :P

3) For being such an unassuming little band, it's actually quite stressful to interact with Sloan
Actually, I'll touch on this one in my next entry. There's far too much to say.

2) It’s OK to make a complete and total ass of yourself.
Having said all that, my interaction with others wasn’t a complete sham.

It's widely understood that you live once. So when placed in extraordinary situations, one should take full advantage of whatever weird and kooky shit you can get yourself into. You know, because you can. Totally helps when you're on your own and the anonymity is by the bucketful.

In this very special case, I had many an opportunity to do so; and when it happened among the ordinary folks (such as myself), I made it a point to involve myself. (Not too much around the VIPs, though. Don't really know why.) I cannot in my life remember dancing as much as I did. I didn't care who was around, I danced dammit! I didn't even dance like that before I became clinically depressed.I just did it; and it was fun. Now if I could only do it at home in front of people I know, I'd be set.

And then there’s the fact I didn’t go the entire trip without finding new friends to hang out with that completely accepted my offbeat sense of being as something awesome. Rainey and Brad are from Ottawa, Maggie and Simon from Boston, and we generally became Sloan’s mini-cheerleading team. (I’ve taken to calling us the Ittah Bittah Sloan Committah.) They were the ones who saw the authentic me – the strange, the korny, generally harmless, and the weak mix bag of emotions; and thought I was fun all the same. It’s definitely a hint I should take going forward as a cue to just be myself and not afraid to do so.

And yes, I was publicly naked for about 10 seconds. Why? Well, because I could - and I must say, it actually did wonders for my self esteem. :p

1) Not all anxiety attacks are a sign of depression weakness.
I absolutely could not believe just how fucking scared I was the entire time I was on that boat. It seriously felt like I took several steps back, because at times, it actually felt like I was back in college/at the theatre when it was too soon after the fact and in the unpredictable space that came with countless encounters with Adam. Only this time, the men who were giving me the worst of my anxiety and panic attacks were heroes and idols; and will never hurt me to the degree Adam did. Regardless, the VIP overload (as I've come to refer to it as) made it so that I spent my wandering time with my eyes to the floor, making sure I had areas of the boat that were generally VIP free so I could find some relief from the overload; and, worst of all, avoiding areas where the VIPs were most likely to be in eyesight as much as possible. I barely ate because I was too scared of the buffet (and I was generally to anxious to eat, and when I'm anxious I don't eat), I did not see the 13th/sun deck because the pool deck was a little safer; and I have absolutely no idea as to how many times I ran off from the elevators because Andrew Scott from Sloan was waiting as well. (I don't know why Andrew. It just always happened to be Andrew.) You see, I practice a strict list of concert etiquette rules while on was on the boat; one of which stated that conversing with the musicians was allowed in elevators - you always have to be cordial in elevators, which meant a conversation would probably start up and the possibility of my making a complete and utter fool of myself in front of the drummer was pretty high. So I high tailed it out of there and took the stairs instead.

I hoped everyday the anxiety would go away, but it never did, and I came off feeling kind of empty that I made that much of an effort to attend the biggest possible concert I could think of only to find I could barely enjoy myself because of a situation that mimicked past negative situations. It also wouldn’t hurt to loosen up after all these years. There was once a time where I was highly regarded as being somewhat of a sweet individual. I even was centered out in grade 3 for it. But all of a sudden, I’m finding I’m just absolutely shutting out new opportunities to meet and converse with new people. I really thought I would have been OK with the overload within time, but as I said, it didn’t go away, and I’m now I’ve got the feeling that I just came off as just rude. I really wish I could have just let it all go, maybe used the elevator when it was going to be uncomfortable to do so, and just introduce myself to everyone I possibly could on the boat, musician and otherwise. I really wish I could have loosened up as best as possible, so that element of my personality could shine; but I just reverted into a severely shy attitude that I know comes off as rude. I know it’s there, it was just a matter of tapping back into it; but it never happened.

Mind you, despite it all, there is an extremely positive lesson in it. Regardless of how uncomfortable I was, I learned the anxiety I felt almost on a daily basis for years could also be good and is generally natural. I mean think about it: imagine yourself in a mall for a week with your heroes and see how you like it. But the bottom line is, I found the turnaround I needed to begin to close this chapter of my life. I came home energized, and for the first time, had something solid I could turn to in the darkest times to keep my spirits up. And it's not like I didn't completely leave the ship empty inside.

I needed this trip. I needed to know what it felt like to be in a virtual heaven for a week. Most importantly, I learned how to feel good about myself and life again. All just in time for the most emotionally stressful time of the year for me - the days leading up to my birthday...

New Year's Day

2009-01-01T12:54:00.005-05:00

"Though I want to be with you
Be with you night and day
Nothing changes
On New Year's Day"
~ U2

This was the one New Year’s Eve that could have completely changed my outlook on life. Over the past few days, I was able to give myself a head start on a new mindset for 2009. Thinking about the cruise, some possible hidden job projections, more travel, more contact with cousins, and just a sense of relief that 2008 is behind me. There was also the prospect of finally spending a New Year’s Eve with someone who completely understands the nooks and crannies of my being and would make me want to celebrate my attempt at a new beginning; just like he’s done pretty much everyday for the past six months.

It’s now 10:40pm. Contact with Marie is on an amicable hiatus, Michelle decided to settle at home for the night, Molly’s at work and is supposed to be home before midnight, and Mom refused to take me to Corunna with her and Dad, which meant I couldn’t hang out with Chris – and then she told me not to get upset because it made her feel completely guilty that she didn’t want me to come.

I’m completely alone, I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed. But I can’t. It’s New Year’s. I need to see the end of this shit year. And really, I don’t know what exactly made it such a shit year. There was no error in judgment; and if people let me down, a lot of it was probably in my head. I was just really fucking out of it. Of course, in the past six weeks, I’ve been cramming, and I really found myself just having a bit of confidence. I made the changes I needed, I’ve lost a bit of weight – for all intensive purposes, I’m on track for a good 2009. I didn’t fall at sleep at work today; and dozing was kept to a minimum. I even got up without too much hassle. I listened to CD's I’ve semi-ignored over the past year, and old favourites that now come with new memories and soon to be made memories.

And now here I sit, almost an hour after I started this entry and I’m drinking, alone. Even Molly’s not home yet.

You know its one thing for me to enforce a protective shield that specifically prevents people from hurting me. To deny me the right to company on the New Year’s Eve of a year that I actually admitted to my doctor that I was conjuring up thoughts of death – really, I don’t know what it means.

But, I do know that the New Year is coming in 15 minutes; and at the very least, I can take part in a small tradition invented by my friends and me many years ago. I’m going for a walk. I need it. If not for the fresh air, my head is pounding. I think it’s the combination of crying, and the Smirnoff. I always get headaches with vodka.

Open up the Lines to First Time Callers: an Introduction to Sloan

2008-12-29T17:36:00.003-05:00

It’s no secret that the popularity Canadian independent music has raised considerably in recent years. If it’s not the Arcade Fire breaking ground in Europe, it is Broken Social Scene alum, Fiest, invading the US market via TV commercials. However, these artists are only the tip of the iceberg. The pool of unsung heroes of Canadian music spans over 15 years; and, are often over looked when reviewing the scope of influence across the country. One such independent group under appreciated for their contribution to the fabric of Canadian music, is Sloan.

Formed in 1991 in, Sloan is a four piece band; that consists of Jay Ferguson, Chris Murphy, Patrick Pentland, and Andrew Scott. Their brand of pop rock can only be described as Beatlesque, yet completely original. Influence among band members ranges from early rock to various punk, new age, and pop groups, (among others) which provides the Canadian group with an eclectic sound that makes each album completely different from the last. It was this eclectic mix of the genres made for one for a collection of catchy pop-rock that earned their spot on Canadian rock radio; however, Sloan’s impact in Canadian music rarely attributes back to their sound. It goes back to their early reputation as the David to the music industry’s Goliath, and how they overcame the possible disbandment to protect their brand of pop-rock and become Canada’s elder statesmen of independent music.

Early in their career, buzz surrounded them after the release of their first single, Underwhelmed, in 1992. At the time, grunge was coming into it’s own as the new wave of rock, and the raw single fit the new mold. They were eventually signed to Geffin; but when they presented their first major label debuted, 1994’s Twice Removed, Geffin rejected it. They had signed Sloan under the impression they would become Canada’s answer to label mates, Nirvana, and put Halifax on the music map as Canada’s answer to Seattle, and not Canada’s answer to the Beatles. Geffin agreed to release the album; however they refused to promote it, which lead to poor sales of the album, and added a level of stress to the struggling group. Shortly after the disappointment of Twice Removed, the band was ready to call it quits. However; regardless of poor record sales, what Geffin eventually didn’t see was the critical acclaim Twice Removed earned from fans and music professionals alike. When polled in several recent Canadian music surveys, Twice Removed always places in the 20 greatest albums, and on two occasions, placed number one. When rumours started to spread about the pending break-up of Sloan, the overwhelming support from fans inspired them to try one more album, 1996’s One Chord to Another. The album was released independently, as they were dropped Geffin shortly after the release of Twice Removed; but even though sales were far from an international smash, the release put the group back in the Canadian spotlight, and gave the group the confidence to keep going.

Although established as one of the most important groups in Canadian music history, and are finally beginning to make minor inroads in the United States, they still remain the criminally hidden gems of independent music that proved to the music industry that you don’t need a label to prove your worth.

Why not Chicken Soup for the Beatles' Soul?

2008-12-28T17:07:00.008-05:00

Recently, I bought myself a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul. As to be expected, four stories into it, I've bawled my eyes out three times. But, reading it, and picking it out at the book store, I couldn't help but realize that the people who right these amazing self help book are completely forgetting a group of people who have some of the most inspiring stories of all: the artists of the world.

They do have a couple books directed towards musicians, but they both don't apply to me. I mean, I rarely listen to country music (I will if the mood allows it), and I don't pay attention to American Idol enough to purchase the book. Oh, and they have a Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul, but that's it.

So I decided to send them a very wordy email - because that's my style really. In my excitement of getting the email down, I actually ended up sending a list of possible book topics. I mean, why stop at just the musician or artist soul? There is much more to art than the simple generalization. In total, I came up with at least 25 possible topics under the umbrella of the art.

1) Chicken Soup for the Artist Soul
These, of course, would be the general book. But why stop here?

2) Chicken Soup for the Music Soul
Not just about those who make it, you know.

3) Chicken Soup for the Rock'n'Roll/R&B/Hip-Hop/Classical/Folk/Jazz & Blues
Whether anyone likes it or not, all musicians are in it for a reason, all musicians belong to some category, or at least, are inspired by at least one of these genres.

4) Chicken Soup for the Guitarist, Pianist, Saxophone, Vocalist, [insert your instrument here]
A tribute to a musician's weapon of choice and the people who are passionate about how they contribute to the fabric of their genre of music.

5) Chicken Soup for the Beatles Soul
Yes, this is a bit of favouritism, but let's face it: it wouldn't be just musicians. You don't have to play an instrument for a Beatle song to tug at your heartstrings, or to proudly state they changed your life - or in some cases even save it. (Hello! Me!) There is so much beyond the hype, and the stories in the book would drill into the heads of those who are sick of the hype to get the other side of the spectrum. I also suggested one for the Elvis Soul, but his impact doesn't even come close to meeting the Beatles. That, and I really don't like post-military Elvis. He just got really fucking cheesy after that.

6) Chicken Soup for the Actor/Director Soul
Some of the most passionate folks on the planet.

7) Chicken Soup for the Comedy/Dramatic Actor/Shakespeare/Music Theatre Soul
Again, split into genres, and you'll get something special.

8) Chicken Soup for the Film/TV Soul
Generic stories, could be about specific movies that touched people's lives; the TV one could be about where you were at during certain events (9/11, the whole who shot J.R. thing, etc)

9) Chicken Soup for the Journalist's Soul
This idea came to me after hearing about a CBC reporter who was kidnapped in Afghanistan. When she was released and made it home, she gave a televised interview that lasted a good 45 minutes. She had too much of a story to tell. Can you just imagine what other journalists would have to write about?

10) Chicken Soup for the Dancer's Soul
What you get when you cross an athlete, an actor and a musician - triple the passion, really.

11) Chicken Soup for the Visual Artist's Soul
Hey, if you can have books for scrapbookers, how can you not have one for those with a passion for all the aesthetics? This one could also be broken down into mediums (painter, charcoal, etc), or movements (pop art, surrealist, impressionism, etc) but that could be hard when you get really specific.

12) Chicken Soup for the American/Canadian Artist's Soul
Do you know how many Facebook groups were spawned when the Canadian government tabled legislation to a) deny tax dollars for films that are deemed too racy, and b) cut arts funding in general? I would like to think Americans would feel the same way about their artists.

Anyway, that's all just my humble opinion. I sent off the email about an hour ago. Hopefully it will help.

Points for the Trews

2008-12-21T20:25:00.007-05:00

Last night, the string of awesome concerts that started the beginning of November came to a close, with a performance from the Trews. It was painful, with the only fault of mine being my insistance of standing in the front row. First off, I slipped getting on the bus on the way to the Industry, which has since caused a massive bruise on my thighs and my pants legs to be sopping wet for the half hour journey in minus really-fucking-cold temperatures. Then, after about five hours of standing, it took my cab an hour and a half to come get me.

But that really was the only negativity experienced at the show.

Brownie points are a form of measurement I made up myself to gauge just how awesome any given thing may be. The Trews still had another 30 seconds to go before they took the stage when the point tally started running faster than the energy meter outside a three story house at the end of July.

100 points for the fourth visit to Sarnia this year (A band loves us! They actually love us!)
1,000,000+ points for using the Band's Chest Fever as entrance music...Chest Fever being one of my favourite songs of all time.
200 points for me for insisting on standing in the front row - the MacDonald brothers are quite good looking if I do say so
50 points for the performance of Hollis and Morris
100 points for Colin MacDonald's (lead singer) Mod-ass Telecaster
-1 point for the die hard fan who only had eyes for the keyboardist positioned directly in front of me, and insistently tried to get the musician's attention by reaching over my head and pushing on Chris.
25 points for the acoustic set
20 points for the acoustic rendition of Every Inambition
1000 points for the acoustic cover of the Faces/Rod Stewart song Ooh La La
25 points for the awesome drum solo
50 points for the cover of Happy X-Mas (War is Over)
1000 points for the overall conclusion that the show is one of the best I have ever seen in 8 years of concert going. :)
100 points to Chris for complaining about being too old to stand in the front row, but doing so anyway because he wanted to hang out.
100 points to the roadie for allowing me to pinch a set list
5000 points for the Trews wasting no time in getting down to the lobby to chat with the crowd, sign autographs; thus saving Chris and I from certain hypothermia waiting for autographs by the bus
5,000 points to all the members of the Trews for signing my set list.
500 points to the Trews band t-shirts that a) weren't designated into men/girls categories, and b) made by American Apparel. American Apparel being a company that specifically manufactures their shirts in downtown Los Angelas (in contrast to most companies who do business in third-world countries). Doesn't hurt that they're some of best quality shirts around. :)
5,000 points to Sean Dalton (the drummer) for selling me my t-shirt
500,000 points to Jeff Heisholt (keyboardist) for kindly obliging for a hug in return for using Chest Fever as the opening music
750,000 points to John-Angus MacDonald (lead guitarist) for kindly obliging for a hug in return for using Chest Fever as the opening music, and for wearing the awesome Obama shirt
1,00,000+ points to Colin MacDonald for asking ME for the hug when I just blatantly came out with the comment that they are, in my opinion, our generation's Band. I'm sorry, that song was almost too fitting for the group's blues laced brand of garage rock. No other group could ever get away with it, but they did.

Total point tally for the night: I lost count at 3,000,000.

I had a very good night. :)

Best. Compliment. Ever.

2008-12-15T01:27:00.006-05:00

From ianundercover.com

Paul McCartney was recently asked by a London session musician which bands’ talents he likes in today’s musicland. “A lot of the bands today are much more technical than we were,” Macca said. “But the Barenaked Ladies have to be my favorite. Their harmonies are right on. They could out sing us any day of the week. I don’t think John and myself ever had the sort of range they do.” McCartney added he wouldn’t mind cutting an album with the band. Maybe BNL’s next song with Paul will be titled “If I had a Billion Dollars” - just like Sir Paul had before gave a good chunk away to Heather Mills.

I needed that. :)

How did I let it get this far?

2008-12-14T02:29:00.002-05:00

Technically, my doctor referred to it as a "depressive episode" on the document that officially gave me the right to a day shift designed to help manage this "depressive episode." The positivity of the step lasted for a commended period of time. When it started this week, I came in with a smile on my face, and immediately began socializing with the folks on the day shift who I've only just ever spoken to in passing. It wasn't long before a level of anxiety set in. Every day, between the hours of 12:30pm and 2:30pm, the exhaustion would hit me like a bitch. It would get so bad, that it took everything in me to stay alert, and even more to keep me from dozing off.

That's what eventually ended the brief moment of relief from the "depressive episode." You see, when I'm that fucking tired, that's when the negative thoughts start rolling in.

It started with the idea that I'm completely incompetent. Although it really was triggered by an emotional reaction to a supervisor and co-workers generally talking down to me when I told them that I'd missed a news flash about a policy change. They told me it took place about a year ago and that it was posted where everyone could see it. What the supervisor failed to take into consideration is perhaps it could have come during a period where I was especially down for the count, and I might have missed it in a blackout. My focus though didn't last on another moment of workplace ignorance. It quickly shifted to an embarrassment that I let myself get so low that I can't pay attention to even the most important information. If I'm told on a day when I'm pretty stable, I will remember it, but they've been far and few between in the past few years.

So I put myself into a break, and headed for the couch that I USED to be able to sleep on, but because, it got moved to an extremely public area, I was evicted from on my first day of this new shift. But even worse from the inablity to sleep when I need to, there's no more places in the back of the break room; with the exception of the chair at the public computer - which is right at the entrance of the door-less room. I've had to accept that my episodes are going to be public from here on in - which means I've caused at least three scenes that attracted sometimes unwanted attention from possible gossipers. Not only did it encourage more embarrassment; but it also set off the overwhelming loneliness that's plagued me for at least the past six months.

It's an absolutely vicious cycle that I'm really fighting to curb; but after the way this new week schedule ended, already I'm discouraged. Hopefully next week will bring something a little better. In the meantime, I can only make sure I keep on keeping on. I've got no choice; not if I want to eliminate this embarrassment; even though I really shouldn't be this embarrassed. I have a chemical imbalance. Letting myself get this far down was inevitable. It's just a matter of convincing myself, and the world.

Bleeding Love

2008-11-13T04:17:00.005-05:00

I don’t think anyone truly knows what goes through my mind every single day, while I’m sitting trying to work. For all intensive purposes, I look OK, I’m calm, and I’m quiet. But lately, it’s coming through the cracks. I begin to get anxious at my desk, I come home on my weekends not wanting to talk to anyone…I put myself into special project code at work because I’m going to break out crying at my desk any second…I come home early saying I have a headache, when really it’s just a poor cover-up so I can go to bed or try to articulate to a blank Word Document just what the fuck is wrong with me. When it’s mentioned that it doesn’t look like I have a headache, I lie and say I took a Tylenol.

There is no happy balance for anything in my life. There’s no satisfaction in knowing that I’m working as hard as I possibly can to insure my life can proceed as planned (however delayed) and still experience a quick adventure while I’m still young, there’s no comfort in knowing that I’m generally respected for what I represent and there’s no reassurance in other’s positive opinions.

Worst of all, I just can’t find it in me to feel 23 going on 24. On any given minute of the day, I’m either 23 going on 14, or 23 going on 40. I can’t stand the feeling of not having any concrete identification of just who I am, nor can I stand having this deep, dark feeling that the only way out of it is just to do the dirty deed and wave good bye to the last piece of innocence I have left.

Worst still, I’ve been wasting company time absolutely bawling my eyes out at work over the subject.

It really shouldn’t be that difficult of a task; in fact, there are websites dedicated to finding partners. Other girls have done far worse, I’m sure. All they really need to arm themselves for the catch is to forget their panties at home for the evening and liquor some poor unsuspecting guy up. Once the guy has his fill, all he really has to worry about is what bragging rights he has the next morning. But alas, I’m determined to go about it my own way and try and hold on to it the best I can, because the last thing I need is for my own “bragging rights” to come with the new personal title: whore. It’s like the one shred of dignity I know I can protect. Under no circumstances will I allow myself to turn into a slut, just so that I can make an effort to feel my age. The guilt would kill me.

The crisis I’m having is that I’ve let myself go so far down the rope of my self esteem I’m starting to feel the noose and elements of my integrity are lost on a daily basis – in short, all I’m doing at work as of late is going through a list of scenarios and defenses for any crack decision to finally do away with this honorable burden. It’s not even a question of peer pressure; it’s purely a physical pressure. My body has been tense for years with the last time I truly felt relaxed being when I was dating Adam after make-out sessions. If I could just let go of a simple completely non-faith based moral of holding out until I’m absolutely sure, than maybe I’ll be able to achieve even a little bit of the release I felt in those last few months of high school.

By the time I get myself though my though session of rationalizing the big steps, the onset of unadulterated horror comes across my mind – because if I’m scared of becoming another statistic in the prevention of teenage pregnancy, I’m petrified that my biological clock is going to give out at anytime. Not once can I rationalize the idea that, hey, I’m in my mid 20s. For fuck sakes, it wasn’t even three years ago in which I gained the right to drink on both sides of the river; and I’ve still got a good 20 years left before I have to really sit down and consider artificial insemination! The want to "getter done" as soon as possible is completely natural at this age.

At the very least I need the balance. If I can find the age balance, than things might be alright. But there’s no chance of balance, and there won’t be for quite some time to come. At work, the reality is that on my team of at least 20, not only am I the youngest, but there is a serious generation gap between myself and the next youngest on the team. Even my current best friend – and, to be quite honest, the only candidate I’ve come across in a long time that could potentially become the recipient of my virginity – at work is exactly 10 years older than me; but he can also be the guiltiest of making me feel at lot younger than I give myself credit for. I know all he sees is a child when he looks at me; but a child who knows a thing or two about music and who used to frequently carry a guitar to work, so that makes me OK. The other day, I shocked him by saying the word “fuck” in public. He said he rarely hears it come from my mouth, I told him it’s because I’ve generally learned to control my language in public. What he fails to remember that is although “fuck” is great word and I use it when I can, “shit” is my term of choice. Doesn’t ever help when I know I’m adult enough take raunchy conversations, I just can’t join in. I don’t have the experience to participate, all because I haven’t been given the chance to experience what they have.

On the other end of the spectrum, when I try to surround myself with those my own age, most of them have already lost it; some are even married with kids. This in turn starts to make me feel absolutely ancient and more alone than ever. Why can’t I just find someone to trust enough to help release me once and for all? Will it ever happen? What happens if it never happens? Will I ever have the twins I want and know I’ll have?

What did I do to deserve this pain, and this invisibility?

This question almost always leads me to the breaking point at work. I need to remove myself from the floor and take up to hour to cry, possibly call crisis or even my best friend because the pain is enough for anyone truly weak to want to throw themselves in front of traffic and I need to nurse it as best as possible. It’s the only option I have. I can’t go home to cry, because I don’t want questions from family members whose only advice is to get over it, and who I feel you can’t trust with a discussion of the true physical ache I’m in. I can’t go to any extended family’s house. Some barely know something’s wrong with me; and if they do know, they don’t know the extent and I’m not prepared for any gossip. I have no friends’ houses to remove myself to in times of need. They live too far out of reach of public transit, don’t know the extent of my problems, or live completely out of town with their own lives. In fact, it’s even to the point were work is the only place I can cry, period. Nobody really cares about my problems, and even though I’m praying for a support system to show up, my coworkers leave me completely alone when I really need to get it out – which is the next best thing. The last thing I need is another person to let me down with this battle.

In the end, I’ve resigned to keep the fight to myself. Masturbation, although not as effective as it once was, keeps some hormones tamed, positive thoughts of cruises with rock stars, and past adventures can take my mind off things every few minutes or so, and although it may not go anywhere, there is comfort in realizing I have at least one reason to go to work. Even if he doesn’t want me as anything else, there’s still a reason.

By 12:30am though, if I’m pacing, there’s a reason. I’m in a perpetual state of a lonely limbo, and you don’t want to know the details.

Brother Down

2008-11-10T02:43:00.004-05:00

The Cheat: Sam
Originally uploaded by Miss Emily Jane

“Someone else telling you what you’re living for
Been knocking you down now you’re looking for more
The only sound you hear is a closing door
Been looking for peace but they’re bringing you war”
- Sam Roberts

There are few things in life that truly make me happy anymore. When the opportunity arises, in theory, nothing should stop me from pursuing it; but over the past couple of years, I have sadly let it opportunity after opportunity slip away.

Apparently Sam Roberts came to town a few years ago, after the release of his last album. How I missed the news the last time is beyond me. Well, I probably heard, but then proceeded to ignore it because I was probably under my normal veil of defeat and because I’m not an uber fan (like I am with, say, Sloan), I didn’t think I would be able to do anything about it easily and wrote it off. As much as I hate to admit it, we do get a list of bi-annual to annual regulars to the night club conveniently located across the parking lot from my call center. It very rarely sways from the Theory of a Deadman/Trews/54-40 line up of shows that usually occur between October 31st and December 29th. But alas, we do attract some groups, and year after year, I miss them like I miss sunrise during the winter months. They always book on Fridays or Saturdays, and I’m left to arrive to work with the sight of a tour bus parked in the parking lot, and to be the first one to inform my workmates of what’s going on at the Industry on any given weekend.

This time, however, I knew I absolutely couldn’t let the opportunity to see Mr. Roberts pass me by again, no mater how painful the progress to get to the point would be. So I carefully took the steps needed to secure the time off, and money for the show itself. I switched shifts with someone on the other team which was something I absolutely shouldn’t have done given my state of mind during the week. I actually took the previous day as an E-Day because I had, yet again, cried all morning. A week later, I had clocked in at least five hours of company time crying and attempting to get a hold of Michelle because I needed SOMEONE. But, I kept telling myself it would be worth it in the end because I was going to a show. My original plan for the evening was such: because I was going alone, I would hang back, attempt to drink myself into oblivion (I’m under the impression that its fun, therefore I should broaden my horizons, right?) and stare at Sam Roberts (the only man alive who is sexier with a beard than without) from afar. At least it was going to be a night out, with loud music and I should be able to enjoy a brief moment in my element.

To my absolute surprise, these expectations were not only met – they were surpassed. Tonight was not going to be a missed opportunity.

The first of two important revelations of the evening came as soon as I got the venue: my bulky but powerful digital camera was in no danger of being confiscated. When I got to the venue, it was a good 15 minutes before the doors opened – and immediately I started to shoot the shit with a young lady from Michigan for the show, who just also happened to be there on her own as well. Also immediately, I had someone who wanted to get to stand as close to the stage as possible. So there, I was, as soon as I got in, front and left of center stage, waiting for the show to start. We were soon joined by two ladies, who were very vocal about how they feel they’re ancient at 31 years of age and how they would hold our spots if we wanted to go get a drink. It was kind of them to offer, but alas, I was given a front row spot – there was no fucking way I was moving. But the offer was still there, and I was never in any danger of loosing my spot, at the front row, with my camera in full view, waiting for the first chance to snap some awesome rock and roll photos; only something I’ve been wanting to do for a very long time but couldn’t because a lot of artists/venues are extremely picky.

The second important revelation of the evening came while passing the merchandise booth. The opening band was to be a group called the Stills, who I’ve heard of in the past, but couldn’t put my finger on where I had heard of them. CBC Radio 3 is the easiest answer to that question, but after taking a peak at their CD sitting on the table, I saw their CD was released under the Arts & Crafts record label…which means I’ve read their over their name on at least five different occasion on the mini-catalogue insert that came with every CD I’ve bought with any association with Broken Social Scene. For the first time in my memory, a group associated with the label was playing Sarnia – a heart attack quickly followed. When the Stills came on, I took in everything – their style of music, their energy, their production, everything – so I that I could make sure I would be crazy not to pass on any praise to the few who listen to me. And you know what? They fucking brought it! Extremely high energy, their music was hard, yet atmospheric and they had the folks on the floor banging their heads to each song. I found them also very passionate, and it made for the best photo opportunities. I always wanted to find a show were I had all the freedom in the world to capture my obsession with music to the highest degree, and combined with their stage lighting set up, and my learned lesson of not using flash at concerts, the Stills made excellent first subjects.

When Sam came out, it was the second time I’d seen him – with the last time being while I was dating Adam. (He wasn’t in tow.) Listening to his music I couldn’t help but observe something I’ve always picked out from his style, but never explored it until now. With all artists generally claiming to have a vintage garage sound, Sam Roberts seems to be the only one whose entire style is a direct throwback to the very basics of early rock and roll, roughly anywhere between maybe Buddy Holly and the very beginning of the Rolling Stones in America. Three chords, simple lyrics, several statements in every song relating to the idea of pure rock and roll, it’s all there. Of course, the best example of this in his catalogue would be ‘Them Kids’ from his most resent album, Love at the End of the World, but even better examples would be something like ‘This is How I Live’ from his very first release, The Inhuman Condition, or even On the Run from We Were Born in a Flame. This is a sound and a style I grew up with and finally, folks my age have embraced it. It’s always a very touching moment for me when I remember that.

Bonus for me though out Sam’s performance, again was my proximity to the stage and my luck in having my camera at the go whenever I saw fit. The photos I was able to get all matched what are the basic three elements I see in music. Power is represented with each action shot. The artist knows they have the audience wrapped around their pinky fingers, and they don’t waste one moment enjoying the spell they’ve put their audience under. Art is represented every time I got that one very weird shot that doesn’t look right on the view finder - but when I got it home, the strange meld of colours, a hidden face in the background, the movement of an individual intended for the picture are reveled. Life is represented in each action shot – and really, in every single shot I took, period. I live to see music in this context. These men must make music in this context to make a living…and possibly to live as I do. Without music, life would be a mistake.

By the time Sam came out for his set, I was in this odd state of mind. You see, part of me felt kind of strange and, out of habit, slightly scared to be there instead of work (especially with work being a grand total of 200 meters from where I stood and I would be caught). But then again, the weird mind-set made me keep reminding myself of how wonderful the moment really was: after at least two weeks of a single continuous, nagging, depressed episode, I was at a rock and roll show. Built up tension was released in the music, embarrassment was released in the anonymity of my solo attendance on the concert, what I have to live for in this world was reassured. For two hours, the only thing that hurt were my feat, but that was only because I opted to wear heals to the show without thinking of the small chance of me standing.

After the show, I didn’t get to meet the man of the hour, but I did say hi to all the guys in the Stills, and to be quite honest, it was more than what I could have asked for. Not that Sam Roberts isn’t cool, it’s just he’ll be back. But the Stills, it’s hard to say when I’ll be able to see them again. The only thing I could ever get out of my mouth to them is that they a) fucking rocked, and b) they need to come and play in Sarnia again. Seriously. The only time a CBC Radio 3 star artist plays here is when they’re opening for a main headliner band, and I figured if I could drill it into their heads that someone loves them here, maybe they’ll be back. If they don’t, I guess I’ll have to wait until I get to Vancouver and able to get into the groove of hearing of any upcoming shows.

When everything was said of done, in all my pain and with a Stills’ shirt, the Stills’ CD and Sam Roberts’ last album on vinyl, I hobbled across the parking lot into work in hopes I wouldn’t miss my supervisor so I could put in one very special request: for my last partial to be requested for next Saturday after 8:30pm. The group 54-40, Canadian rock and roll staples are making a return appearance in the Sarnia-area. If I didn’t ask, it would be another missed opportunity, and I don’t want that, do I?

Every Inambition

2008-11-08T04:54:00.008-05:00

“I had my fill, I said enough
Chemicals were calling my bluff
Way beyond good and evil
Telling all the little people”
- The Trews
In my Dad’s opinion, if I’m going to move, I should go to England, because I’ll be near family. After at least four years of contemplating taking the ultimate step, I have come to the conclusion that England just isn’t the place for me. God bless it, it’s lovely and I love being close to some of my most vibrant family members. On the two occasions I traveled there last year, I didn’t take my opportunity for granted. I saw as much of the country (and its neighbouring countries) as I could. But in the end, after visiting four countries, three world capitals, rock and roll Meccas, and locations you just wouldn’t see if you didn’t do a little exploration, something was missing. In the end, it was the most insignificant thing that brought to life just what I would miss.

When visiting music stores, my instincts led me to the regular sections, only to find that I’d see a single copy of Feist’s most recent album and maybe a couple of Barenaked Ladies albums if I was lucky; other than that, Canadian content was limited, or at least the stuff I’ve attached myself to as of late. There was one major exception, though. While in an HMV in Southport, a resort town between Liverpool and Blackpool, I actually found a copy of Sloan’s Parallel Play. Yes, Sloan, the criminally underrated heroes of Canadian independent music who were punished for having the now en vogue vintage garage rock style 15 years before it was cool to do so. To this day, even after you add up just how much music and how many groups they’re responsible for, you can’t help but realize that there’s something seriously wrong with people’s ears when you learn the best they can do is a single top 10 hit on Canadian radio that came six albums into their career. But, there it was, in a CD store, in England. Thinking I would never see such a glorious sight again, I paid the £12 for the copy - or about $24 for a CD that I paid $13 for when it came out three months earlier. I would have preferred to have found something a little older. Even though it’s excellent, this latest effort is only 30 minutes long and is a snowflake on the iceberg of their magnificent catalogue; but it would have to do. I eventually gave the copy to my cousin, in hopes she may pass on what she hears to her friends. It’s the only thing I could do to promote this music I’m so proud of.

I am Canadian. Canada is my home, and the only place in the world where my true identity could ever thrive. Yes, my family is British and my roots as a musician run deeper into the country than the Underground that brought me to Abbey Road, but as approach 25, I know any future as a performer or even a studio musician is slim and I’ve been forced to look inwards, and forward for the sign on where I’m supposed to go next. Needless to say, if I actually listen to Mom’s advice about writing and take into account the conversation I had with my guitar teacher about music journalism, Manchester just doesn’t feel like the right place to start telling the world about Canadian music. Maybe another time down the road, I will; but until then, I need the experience in my own country – so my sights will remain on this country’s third largest city.

Much to what anyone in my immediate circle says or wants for me, there’s nothing they can do to stop me from pushing a head with my move to Vancouver and whatever international side project that may come along side my relocation. At this point in my life, I resigned to keep my issues to myself and take the punches as they come. It’s just not worth it to fight, and when I don’t fight back; I protect what ever self esteem I have left. I have no choice to keep going in hopes that my quick escape from the misery and the completion of my ultimate goal to eliminate this unnecessary and debilitating brand of stress I’ve created will signal the end of this dark period in my life

My number one fear at this point in my life is simple: I can’t stand the idea of settling into an ongoing lifestyle in Sarnia at this age. I know if I don’t get my ass in gear soon, I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll have to deal with the isolation, the pollution, and weird looks from old people when I go to vote for the rest of my life. The streets are barely pedestrian friendly, they’re far from being cyclist friendly, and I am forced to beg for rides home because I have to be lucky that our transit system only just recently upgraded to Sunday day service and Saturday evening service – asking for 24 hour service is asking too much. Most important for me, the culture in this city fucking sucks, to put it as lightly as possible. This city seldom sees concerts of the more underground type (you know, the kind I want for inspiration) because any effort to get bands is directed to what the old people want, or what set in stone music fans want. There are a ton of artists I need to see, but unless they’re played on Sarnia radio, there’s no chance of them playing our one and only club. I need to leave, so am, whether anyone likes it or not.

It’s been suggested that I try somewhere like Petrolia, Strathroy or Stratford - somewhere small. It’s not like they aren’t absolutely gorgeous, it’s just Sarnia’s already a “small town” per say, and I need to leave that behind for a little while and try some kind of city living while I’m still young. (Read: I need to get the fuck out of this retirement community and big cities are the absolute opposite to almost everything associated with retirement.) Needless to say, there’s no way I’m leaving for any Northern Ontario community; nor would it be in my best interest to try anything rural in any part of the country. Some have suggested I move to Kitchener, London, or even Kingston -somewhere familiar. As much as they are lovely in their own right and they all fill one important requirement on my list of “things a city must have” - I’ll actually be able to see great live music every month or so - they’ve sadly become places I associate with “quick fixes” to my problems. I will never move to a location with that association. Not to mention, I’ve never considered either of them to be big cities. It probably has something to do with the fact they’ve always been part of the fabric of my upbringing; thus, it would feel like I’m just moving to a new area of Sarnia.

The only two places left for me to possibly try in this province are Toronto or Ottawa. Ottawa, although beautiful and is a location I’ve considered, just didn’t feel right. The Ottawa River was too narrow for me to get a proper assessment of where I was. The thought of not being near enough water to know where I’m going makes me slightly claustrophobic – really. As long as I have a massive body of water to go by, I can find my way around almost anywhere. As for Toronto, it’s not that I don’t love the place with every fiber of my being – it is, after all, the heart of everything culture in the country and between the CN Tower, Lake Ontario, and just my frequency of visits I always know where I’m going in the downtown – but to be honest with myself, it smells like Sarnia and is close enough to Sarnia to once again feel like I’m just moving to a new area of Sarnia. If I could find a place similar to Toronto, I’d be OK.

So, that leaves Ontario right out of any immediate possibility, so I scoped out other possible locations, either via the internet, by word of mouth, or literally stepping foot inside the place. So far, the short list is just that: short. Halifax was right out the moment I stepped foot in Nova Scotia. Not only did I get into a fight with Marie that ruined my weekend, I went in February, which meant walking around was a total bitch the entire time – if the wind chill wasn’t double the actual temperature, the roads were steep and icy, and when I left, it was in the middle of a blizzard. It was bad enough being tense from the fight; I flew out in the middle of a white-out.

Marie suggested I try Alberta, like she did this past summer. Student jobs are in abundance and I’d meet a ton of people. I did look up some Internet sites, but then again, she also came back a very changed person - it’s officially turned me off of the place. That and you can see the other side of the main lake, and it’s too cold to swim in, even in the summer – basically the cruelest form of claustrophobia if I can think of. It would definitely be too small for me to be accurate if I was to get lost, in bear country no the less. At least Halifax has the Harbour that is the clear division between itself and Dartmouth and Marie lived downtown, thus, I wasn’t confused.

Florida, by default, is right out. Not that it wasn’t interesting and was definitely far from boring; I just do not have the desire to live State side. Never have, probably never will.

That brings me to one last recent destination: British Columbia. I experienced two possible choices during my visit, and still only one feels right – and Vancouver Island was not it. Well, it can remain the very last resort for a place to live, but strictly the absolute last resort; because, to be honest, it’d be like relocating to BC’s answer to Sarnia. My call center has a location in Nanaimo and we share the same client, so I’d probably get a job there no problem. Mind you, there is a rule of thumb that circulated work: if you get a case is massively fucked up to the point of no return, and the rep ID includes the number 72, than you’ve been “Nanaimoed”. Although I’d end up being the smartest person in the center, I really don’t want to be associated with something like that. That and I think I’ve done enough time in the prison known as a call center. I need to move on, but if worst comes to worst, it’s there. And then, of course, there’s Victoria. In all its world class city glory and natural ease that’s made British Columbia my target, there was still something missing for me. Yes, there are some excellent restaurants, its home to Big Bad John’s, (Best. Bar. Ever) culture is everywhere to be seen, Canadian bands don’t miss it, it’s quite big but with a downtown is completely pedestrian friendly and I could navigate it no problem – but in the end, it felt like a huge Stratford. Not that I don’t hate Stratford, it’s just with the combination of having BC’s answer to Sarnia about an hour’s drive away, it felt like the same old, same old.

The only resemblance Vancouver has to anywhere in Ontario is that it felt like Toronto – only with slower pace and without the stench of pollution wafting up from a certain industrial wasteland southwest of the city. Everything about it felt like someplace I could call home for the time being. The city is surrounded by water, and I always knew were I was going – and I could walk anywhere and everywhere no problem. The city's youth population is in abundance, and generally quite left-leaning to boot (opposed to the now strictly Conservative riding of Sarnia-Lambton). Finally, maybe I'll be able to feel like I'm 20! Even the outlining areas and suburbs like Burnaby or New Westminster are far more attractive than some place like Scarborough or even Ajax, Whitby or Oshawa; all of which being possibilities of where I’d end up if I move to Toronto. And, most importantly for all my inspirational needs, it’s saturated with culture and its musical heritage is something that must be explored and documented further; and my love for volunteering will not go unaddressed. Don’t get me started on the mountains, and the reviews from English relatives that driving through Ontario is a drag.

I do not want some kind of condo or even an apartment in a high rise. I want to live as a student the best I can, even though I’m not a student (yet – I’ve been considering school as an option once settled). I’m 18 months away from 25 and I don’t know what it feels like to be a young adult. I’ve been dealing with my bipolar since I turned 19, and it’s to the point were I feel like I’ve been in a virtual blackout. I actually remembered a feeling of turning 32 as I crept up to my 22nd birthday; and yet, when I go out and get talking with Chris, I feel like I’m still 19. (Grant it, that’s generally his fault.) I figure by finding some kind of basement apartment that I’ll be able to find that balance, before it’s too late to enjoy being young. Being on the west coast of Canada, and in a fast approaching Olympic host city no less, I figure it shouldn’t be that hard to find a job. But, as always, I will have a back up plan if things just don’t work out – namely money set aside strictly for the event of homesickness or a realization it just wasn’t meant to be. My bases will be covered.

But as I said previous, even after my careful evaluation and elimination of all possible places to move, I get yelled at from family; regardless of my track record as a traveler. Michelle and Marie were both present when I lost it in the restaurant after Marie’s stories. Both tried to convince me that I was hot and attractive and one day, I won’t be single. Marie even reminded me of when I visited her in Halifax that I got home all by myself without calling mommy or daddy for extra money when my plane ticket got screwed up. (Ironically, at the time it was a cue for her to get super pissed and snap at me because I can be compulsive spender at times, all the while I was trying to keep calm and get a hold of my bank to get my hands on money I had out of reach, for just such emergencies.) Michelle told me I was the one person she could always trust while on the road, reminding me of the Our Lady Peace concert we attended in London a few years ago. I’d organized the money, booked the train, used my Internet skills to find a cheap hotel, and got us there and back no problem. Even Mom shouldn’t have an excuse. While in England, she couldn’t get over my ability to navigate London. Only Molly knows of the single financial hiccup when we arrived at the hotel in London, and how well I handled it.

~*~

Alright, I do have to admit something about that last rant. My family does have a bit of a right to question what my intentions are for the future; but again, they’re based on misinterpreted facts and just a general ignorance to what I may have learned over the years and my ability to apply what I’ve learned.

I mean, do you honestly think I would even consider attempting a cruise if I was putting a move to the west coast in jeopardy?

As young, but seasoned traveler, I’ve almost got the art of planning a shoe string budget vacation down to a T. Three years of group tourless travel, booking hotels, flights, train tickets – fuck, any transportation – and getting home in one piece was reason enough to figure a Caribbean cruise should be a synch; even though I originally had no desire to travel south. I had no idea as to what to expect as far as preparation is concerned. I mean, I didn’t even know you actually get off the boat at some points during the trip! But alas, you do, and all of a sudden I’ve put myself in a position to see Mexico, of all places. Total bonus in the broad scope of my experiences. All my absolute favourite places along the road have been total surprises or even borderline gambles; Cozumel will probably end up joining the ranks of Brugge, Belgium, Wexford, Ireland, and, most importantly, Vancouver.

But all of the barebones adventures that awaits me by traveling to the Caribbean pail in comparison for the real reason behind the trip. This cruise is called Ships & Dip, and it is the Barenaked Ladies fan cruise. Yes, it’s a strange concept, and I can officially dub myself “obsessive,” but hear me out…

I wouldn’t have done it if it was just BNL. The most I’ve ever forked out to see only that band was $60 and it was for a festival up in Walkerton, Ontario. I had absolutely no desire to see anyone else on the bill that day, and being the last act on the roaster, I had to wait until almost midnight and endure a set by Brooks and Dunn (officially the worst show I’ve ever seen) for them to come out. Never again. So, I skipped the first two cruises – $60 was enough, there was no fucking way I was dishing out $2,000 to see one band and travel to a location I just wasn’t ready to try. But I did vow to take the plunge if they began to bring more artists that I admire. The first year, their guests were bands I didn’t know; therefore I’d be taking a bit of a risk. The second year, I became a bit jealous because they added Great Big Sea to the roaster. Hello! It’s Great Big Sea and they’re playing on a ship! But two groups were not enough to sell me; and really, three groups shouldn’t have done the trick. But when the third band is the one group who, on occasion, has the ability to trump the mighty Barenaked Ladies in my books, action must be taken. They just had to go and give me a fucking heart attack by adding Sloan, didn’t they?

I performed thorough research. I’ve been to the bank six times in two months, and created a mutual/rainy day savings fund that I absolutely cannot touch to help on the move front. I went to the travel agent; found flights to Miami aren’t as expensive as I thought (on American Airlines, no less). The pieces were in place, and all I had to do is decide whether or not to go. As it turns out, deciding to take the step to go is one of the best things I’ve ever done to help my self esteem.

Bottom line is that it’s more than a vacation to escape the winter blues of a Canadian February. There’s no way around it, the first thing on my list of things to do to prepare is to clean up my appearance, and loose some weight. Insults and passive aggressive attacks on my appearance don’t work, the idea of being seen in my birthday suit by rock stars I’ve had crushes on since high school does. (Don’t ask.) Even though dentist costs are adding up as it is, I’m going to get my teeth whitened. Fuck, I’m even thinking about swallowing my tomboy pride and possibly get a manicure. I’m going to try and make myself look hot, dammit, because I can! (Or so says Michelle and Marie. I’ll believe it if I see it.)

I can bring my guitar without looking like a total idiot; which means I have to practice up. I haven’t had a reason to practice like this in years. It feels almost like I opened a window in a locked away storage room; and after some polishing up, the smell of mold and dust should be gone and I’ll be able to get through a couple of songs if an open mic night is scheduled. Just the idea of being able to go a vacation strictly dedicated to indulging myself in music brings an actual tear of joy to my eyes. Bonus rock stars are going to be there.

Finally, I have come upon an opportunity of a time and place where I can be the Emily I know exists and will hopefully come out with the level confidence I’ve been missing for so long. For the first time, Sarnia’s queen of just about everything dork-ish, is traveling completely alone. As negative as that may sound, it’s really not because I generally have fun in my odd ways. When I do something generally stupid, there really is potential for it to be quite funny; I just don’t always have the ability to swallow my embarrassment and enjoy it. I’m getting better at it, no doubt. A stupid wisecrack here, a public mess up of something I thought I know there, I’m learning to take it in jest; but alas, I generally want praise, so they’re still classified as my most embarrassing moments. But this cruise will be different. The majority of the travelers are BNL fans – who are notorious in rock circles as being some of the friendliest around. They’re also stereotypically women who are just as out there as I am – I know this for a fact. I met a few during shows in Walkerton, ON, and the one at Bayfest and, despite my oddness in the real world; I fit in like a glove with these folks. Being a cruise, there will be more than a thousand more of these women. Messing up in conversation, singing out of tune…fucking up a guitar part I thought I knew in front of any given guest artist...fucking up during around of Guitar Hero/Rock Band with Ed Robertson...the ounce of embarrassment if any member of Sloan decides to ask me if I signed up specifically for them...'cus it's kind of true, but not quite...the whole birthday suit thing (don't ask, just know that it's appearently very liberating)…will be forgiven – and will only come back to haunt me should I meet up with these people again.

I’m going to learn to be fearless. I’m going to learn confidence. I’m going to show some people once in awhile I can take great care of myself in environments that are extremely self indulgent.

Shortly there after, I’m moving to Vancouver, because I can.

New blog, same writer's block

2008-11-03T03:28:00.009-05:00

This is my MySpace profile. After much debate, I have finally decided to leave my original blog site. I held off as much as I could, but that was only because I liked the idea of having a completely customizable profile page that allows me to be as elaborate as my heart wants me to be. But, the reality is, if I want to maybe take a honest swipe at being the writer my mom thinks I can be, a more structured blog is in order. Although I have backed the entries from MySpace onto my computer, I will probably won't delete my profile. I have a hard time letting go of things, so my original bitch blog will probably be no different. Besides, other than my previous post last night, that's the most background information I'm going to give in one shot. If any new readers want more information, MySpace is still there.

So here I am using Google's Blogger. So far so good, I suppose. Still can't get over the idea of searching hi and low for the right look. It's a small detail, I know, but it's important for me to practice the discipline of design when I can. Grant it, my battle wouldn't be so bad if I had regular access to Photoshop, and a course in the changes in HTML since the summer in elementary school when I taught myself what is now the basics. That would require time and privacy, which I don't have.

Life has been the same old, same old, with some added pressures and little things I don't need. I didn't go to work yesterday at all because it went to a climax and I was sick of pacing and worrying about the stupid shit. So I came home, and I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote some more. I'm working on just a complete rant on everything I'm pissed off about in life and, sadly, it's mostly about everyone involved from family to friends, old and new.

The ten basic points of what I wrote:

I'm moving to Vancouver
Mom still won't let up, even though she thinks she is. There's not a chance in Hell she ever will.
Dad, although generally out of my business, has had his fair share of blows that have contributed massively to my predicament.
Molly has no business questioning my bank balance.
I'm still moving to Vancouver.
Marie is slowly by surly leaving the picture. I generally blame myself, but she's had a hand.
Michelle is always a phone call away - when phone tag is finally won.
a. Chris is the only reason I go to work. He could be more, but it's too complicated and if things were to go wrong, he'd become the only reason I won't want to go to work.
b. I'm really fucking lonely right now, and it's not going to be long before he's going to notice and ask questions with answers that would just make things worse.
c. There is a very simple and easy solution, but it would probably just make things worse.
I'm still moving to Vancouver, but I found the time and money to go on a cruise, so I am.
I'm going to come back from my cruise reaffirmed that I owe my life to music.

I also took the opportunity last night to write out that first post about Barenaked Ladies. It's my first official swipe at something a little more freelance. Probably the only thing Mom has said to me that's really beginning to resonate in an extremely positive way is her statements about my writing, and the idea of doing more of it came into play when my guitar teacher, Glenn, told me he could see me as a music journalist. Research has put some websites dedicated to providing paid opportunities for freelance writers. It's hard to say whether or not I'd ever succeed with writing, but then again, I owe it to myself as a creative being to give it a shot. A little extra cash for something I do when I'm emotionally crippled is appealing. Of course, it's taken a bit of a push to begin working on the idea of leaving the personal pieces aside for an hour or two to complete, but as I found out writing the BNL piece, it comes once I get the original idea out. I used to be able to do this kind of stuff, it's just a mater of assuring myself that I never really quit.

For the time being though, I must put the creative flow aside as it is 4:45am and I have errands to run tomorrow before I head to guitar. Hopefully I'll be able to return tomorrow with something I started subconsciously during my lesson.

Autobiography

2008-11-02T01:51:00.003-04:00

“I'm writing "young and gifted"
In my autobiography
I figured, who would know
Better than me
I'm certainly the former
But I'm not so much the latter
But no one's gonna read it
So I'm sure it doesn't matter”
~ Sloan

It’s generally been established that there is a direct coloration between mental illness and creativity. There’s always a need to get that sudden idea out to the world and dealing with the pressure of being labeled a genius, mad – and in my case nothing at all. All in the quest to find some kind of identity. You’re not necessarily looking for fame; rather you are looking for a way to get whatever demons haunt you and receive reorganization for whatever came out of your strange little mind.

I've been training as a musician for half my life, volunteered at the local theatre for even longer and I have a stack of paint mediums on a shelf in my room just waiting to be experimented with further. I could journal my life in a notebook, but that would be boring and nobody would be able to read it. A very subtle attempt at attention from a painfully uncharismatic and seemingly innocent looking young woman.

Just so happens I joined the ranks of Van Gogh and Kurt Cobain about five years ago.

I don't think we've met. My name is Miss Emily Jane Plunkett and, I have to be perfectly honest with you, I am a bit crazy.

My birthday is April 24, 1985. I was supposed to have been born on April 24, 1945, but fate made cruel, cruel mistake. I was born, raised and currently reside in Sarnia, Ontario. Can't always say that I'm proud of that. It is in fact a hick city…not a hick town, but a hick city. We have more than one stop light and a transit system; therefore, too big to be a town. So a hick city it is - and a retirement community at that. It doesn’t mater how much it grows, rumours spread just as rampant as it expands and slowly but surely the one weekend of the year with the prospect of something to do is slipping away. Kids don’t buy beer and it’s a better idea to market to pensioners. But hey, its home and I refuse to swim in the sea because Lake Huron doesn't leave the gross salt water film on your skin.

I'm 4’11. I have brown hair and dark blue eyes. I’ve consistently stayed at a size 16 for most of my young adult life, and I weigh about 180 pounds. That's right. I said it. Most people don't believe me. I mean, they know I've got some extra curves, stout, but I'm definitely not stereotypically obese. I'm just a plus sized petite who really doesn’t look THAT heavy. There is only one person on the planet that reminds me that I have an exceptionally large ass.

Ethnically, I'm, like, 50% British, 15% Irish, and 100% Canadian. Mom and her dad were born here in Sarnia. My Nana is a war bride and came over with my grandpa in 1945. Dad was born in Manchester, England, his parents in Dublin, Ireland. I have cousins in both the UK and Ireland. But above all else, I was born in Canada. When I'm overseas; I am an extremely patriotic odd ball. They know and consider me a proud Brit. I too know and consider myself a proud Brit. But I'm also Canadian and I make sure they don't forget it.

I have a sister named Molly Rose Plunkett – only the most Irish name on the face of the planet. Molly is six and a half years younger than me, which isn’t always a bad thing, but there’s definitely the occasional strain. I still remember the day I was told that Mom was pregnant. Mom told me she had a surprise for me, but we had to wait until Dad got home. Being all but five years old at the time, I was hoping for a pack of Smarties, but no, I was getting a sibling in nine months. (I’m still waiting for my Smarties.) I remember the day she was born. It was a P.A. day, and I was sick to my stomach for reasons beyond me. Growing up was met with a lot of tension, as our personalities have a tendency to clash – where as I do not have even so much of an ounce of temper (I am severely passive and emotional), Molly inherited whatever short fuse is associated with both sides of the family. But as Molly closes in on her college years, and I creep my way slowly to 30, we are finding that half the time we wouldn’t rather be in the company of anyone else at midnight on a Saturday night.

I work at a call center...no, I'm not the lady that calls you during dinner time wanting to give you a free vacation in return for your time for a survey. Rather, I'm the lady you call when you are having trouble with your phone bill and you want credit. Not that it maters. I actually figure of the two types, mine is the worst. I mean, think about it: if a customer rips into a telemarketer, they have the comfort of knowing it will be over within, what, 15 minutes? In customer care, we can be on the phone for two hours with someone insisting on speaking to the CEO of the company to get credit for something completely stupid.

Music is my life blood. With the exception of two years spent nursing my initial treatment, the majority of my life has been spent in some kind of music lesson. I started on piano, but the further you advance, the more you can not use a 33-key Yamaha keyboard to practice. My training as a guitarist is a strange one. Most would start on the acoustic the parents got them for Christmas, later to progress to electric when they figure out Metalica sounds better amplified and then progress to bass when you realize it might be a good asset to your band. I’m doing it backwards. February 2010 will mark 10 years since I first picked up my school's Fender Precision bass guitar, and I finally bought my first acoustic two years ago. Well, actually, it’s a semi-acoustic. It’s not as big as a full blown acoustic. I figured it was the easiest transition.

If music was religion, than I worship at the alter of the Beatles. Say what you want about them and “the fuss,” I don’t give a flying fuck. When you’re three and begging your father to put on the album with Yellow Submarine, popularity is not the first thing on your mind. I owe my life to that group, because quite frankly, if I didn’t have music, I’d be dead by now. I listen to music because of the Beatles. My God of everything music is Sir James Paul McCartney. Back 40 years ago, he was known as "the cute Beatle.” You can say what you want about him, but he did write Blackbird. And Yesterday. And Hey Jude (you know you're not afraid to sing a long!). And, you have to admit, he's an amazing bass player. You wouldn’t think so, considering his style is the furthest from flamboyancy that is Flea, but I dare you to sit and figure out the bass for Something. That's not saying he talent far exceeds that of his best friend and partner in crime, Mr. John Winston Ono Lennon (who is a fucking Saint). I just think you should never underestimate Sir Paul.

During my failed year of college, I studied media fundamentals. I quit three quarters of the way through due to an insanity plea. Never the less, I have a small background in media studies, and I carry on my interest in media literacy. I wake up to CBC Newsworld every morning, I fall asleep with CBC Newsworld every night and although I may not always be able to comment on the state of the world (everything I read is taken with 20 grains of salt), at least I always know what's going on. I will admit most of my attention is direct towards the entertainment headlines. Not for the gossip factor, mind you. Most of the time, I’m waiting for a spotlight on an artist that's worth while. The rest of the time is spent bitching at the state of this generation’s pop culture and why it's so fucking embarrassing that even Andy Warhol is spinning so fast that his dead body could provide a reliable energy source to light New York right through the new millennium.

I generally consider myself a subscriber to Christianity, although my denomination will never be defined. There are many who would be happy to tell me why I’m going to Hell. My personal belief is that the world and all its hidden beauty had to have been created by an individual using a love beyond our comprehension and it is my duty in life to continue said love. I really don’t care were I end up in the end, just so long as I can tell that individual that it was an honour to be part of this masterpiece called Earth and that I liked the dolphins, the penguins, my cat Mitzy, and sunsets the most. Oh, and I want to tell him that His son was right during that bit about forgiveness. I do not believe in organized religion or being told that what I’m believing is all wrong because I’m not afraid to let you know that I have absolutely no hatred towards homosexuals, no real problem with sex before marriage and would fully understand and support whatever reasoning a 12-year-old would have for wanting an abortion. Last thing an underdeveloped body and mind needs is to carry a child conceived with the uncle she thought she could trust. When the power of love overcomes the love of power, there will be peace.

The only people in my family who knows about my blog are my sister and one cousin. At the time of this entry, I’m still extremely uncomfortable to the idea of letting my parents read it. It’s not a pretty read, but deep down inside, I know I have to make them read it at some point. I’m not very articulate when confronted face to face and when your dealing with people who are now scared for their child’s life, any updates to my health has been minimal. So instead, I write this autobiography of sorts. I’m calling it an autobiography for the time being. I honestly don’t know where I’m going to be going with it. I pride my blog for having a fine tradition of bitching since its first incarnation back in April of 2006, and it would be foolish to not carry on the tradition.

Either way, it gets the frustration out. That’s all I’m asking for.

The Ballad of Gordon: the Overlooked History of Barenaked Ladies

2008-11-02T01:13:00.000-04:00

When the world thinks of Canadian music of the past 20 years, it can almost be certain names like Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback are the first artists that come to mind. Although these artists can certainly be commended for placing Canada on the vast map of popular music, the conversation rarely continues from there, and it can almost be certain that the topic mater will switch to another favourite conversation piece: Canadian weather. What the world doesn’t know is that beyond these artists, and underneath our snowy image, lays a pool of talent just waiting to be listened to; and sadly, when the world doesn’t listen, Canadians overlook their own talent.

Every once in a while, a hit will shine through to the biggest music market of them all – America – but rarely will these artists see a possible second hit, especially if that one hit is a novelty song, and not one of the other songs off the album that actually has some deep meaning. The overplay will eventually give the Canadian public reason to write off the artist, regardless of the true masterpieces of pop music that came before, during, and after the one massive hit; thus, the unfortunate fate of Toronto’s own Barenaked Ladies. The artist is left with the unavoidable label “One Hit Wonder” and international music fans are left stunned to learn that this one hit is just in a line of several accumulated by the group over the span of 10 years in Canada.

It is still forgotten when discussing the history of Barenaked Ladies (BNL) with the world, is just how important the group is to the fabric of Canadian music, and just how dark the songwriting can be at times. In the early ‘90’s, widespread distribution of a demo cassette dubbed the Yellow Tape led to the group claiming the title of first Canadian Independent release to go platinum. In this day and age where Canadian music fans are proud when our independent artists to so well, BNL did it first. Their fun blend of pop, rock, folk and comedy hit a chord with the Canadian public, and the success eventually lead to their first major label release, 1992’s Gordon, going to number one in the Canadian charts. Of course, some six years later, the same genre mix that saw Gordon go to number one, was used to craft the American smash hit, “One Week.” The problem is, this formula, only used on maybe four songs in their entire body of work, eventually became what people wanted to hear out of the group; or at least until they got sick of it. Inevitably, when the public became sick of the overplayed novelty songs, people got sick of BNL, before they read between the lines.

The fact is that, along side such fan favourites like “Be My Yoko Ono” and “Grade 9,” Gordon contained not one, but two songs about domestic violence; not to mention, their first ever hit on Canadian radio was a powerful acoustic cover of Bruce Cockburn’s “Lovers in a Dangerous Time.” Most importantly, “Brian Wilson,” has nothing to do with the sunny side of surf music. Rather, it’s songwriter Steven Page’s first foray into the subject of mental illness, a subject that is rarely untouched to some degree on any given album. Beyond “One Week,” this song is arguably their greatest hit, and the most recognizable across Canada; but still, few hear the dark essence of the song, they only hear the novelty of the title of the song.

However, the happy ending to this story is that even 20 years as a band and enough drama that would destroy most other bands; Barenaked Ladies show no signs of stopping. Their 2003 release of Everything to Everyone marked their last under a major label, and in the years since, they have re-established themselves as one of Canada’s great indie bands. Free from major label pressures has not only allowed them to venture into original projects that bands of their generation and genre are rarely known for (the holiday album Barenaked for the Holidays and the children’s release Snacktime!), but have also given them freedom to release albums without songs that resemble “One Week.” They may not ever be able to duplicate the world wide success of 10 years ago, but they now have the power to focus on creating the thought provoking and carefully arranged pop songs that have always existed and can be found after a bit of exploration.