Trip Clips

It’s hard to believe it’s only been a month and a half since I left my beloved Montreal. And in so little time, everything seems to have changed. I can’t possibly go into every little detail, so I’m going to sum it up into a few little vignettes.

A sunshine kind of state

When we arrived, we were immediately ushered into the lobby. It was crisply decorated with glassworks and softened with plush fabric, the odd twinkle reflecting on shiny surfaces. We ordered drinks and waited, while I struggled to down Francis Ford Coppola’s bitter Chardonnay. After 15 minutes, we were taken to our seats. The leather chairs were wide, each with its own ottoman. We couldn’t help but squeeze the arms and the back. Our waitress arrived, took our dinner orders, and brought us more drinks. Shortly after, my melon mojito and roasted salmon with market greens and cream sauce arrived. Then the theatre dimmed the lights and the movie began. “God bless America,” I said to the husband unit.

Dublin-Ya

On my way to the bathroom, I ran into the drunk girl who’d stolen the microphone from tonight’s musician and given her own rendition of a disco tune he wasn’t playing. She was accompanied by two more drunk girls. To be fair, I was a bit tipsy myself, which could explain why I don’t quite recall why I chatted them up in the first place. Of course, it isn’t difficult: just tell a girl she looks pretty. That gets things started, and usually on the right foot.

Hearing my exotic, otherwordly accent, Drunk Girl #1 asked me where I was from. I told her Canada, which she connected to the United States.

“My aunt’s husband – my u’cle – he’s top…he’s one-atha top cancer doctors in…in…Maine,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“He’s…uh…he’s 121st,” she went on.

I laughed a bit. “Out of how many?” I asked.

Her face contorted slightly, and then frowned. “I dunno!” she yelled.

“Crap,” I thought, “my sardonic was out loud.”

“I’m not being flippant,” I tried to explain, “I’m really just curious.”

“Oh,” she said calmly.

“She’s not always like this,” Drunk Girl #3 said, “she’s just drunk tonight. Wanna come dancing with us?”

I politely declined. When I returned to the table, the libertarian criminal defense lawyer from Texas was asking the husband unit how on earth it makes sense for the government to pay for his rich-as-Roosevelt mother’s health care. He wasn’t being rhetorical.

Five empirical truths about England (to a Canadian, anyway)

1. Pubs aren’t bars so much as a public service.
2. The Crown Jewels are a show of power and wealth, but not of taste.
3. It’s coming at you from the right.
4. Peas come with everything, and sandwiches are everywhere.
5. If it can’t be resolved over tea, you’re overreacting.

No hablo Inglés

After a slightly awkward but utterly efficient waxing with a Spanish esthetician, who had no patience for my cutesie non-Spanish apologies, I joined the husband unit at a seaside bistro for afternoon beer. Moroccan vendors kept approaching us with their handfuls of knock-off watches and sunglasses. “No” quickly became a function. In between nays, the banter was lazy but strangely productive. After we’d had enough, we took one last walk along the shore. On the sidewalk, more Moroccan vendors were selling handbags. One caught my eye. It had a floral design with black sides and a faux-croc texture. A big “D&G” buckle shone in front. I wasn’t intent on convincing people I owned a D&G bag, but I did like the design. So I got it. The husband unit helped me stuff the contents of my “old” bag into the new purse. On the way to find a taxi, another Moroccan vendor was selling the same purse, but its buckle read “Prada.”

The husband unit shrugged. “That’s exactly what you pay for.”

Worth the wait – A shameless plug

Just before leaving, I was invited to take part in The Art of Waiting, a collective art project with specific parameters that we all have to follow to the letter. The idea is to explore the notion of waiting through photography and text. Each participating artist was sent a letter in the mail with an invitation to take part. Then we had to send our bios to the curator, Jeff Nachtigall, in the mail. Each month, we have to submit at least one text and one photo on the theme of waiting. The texts are posted immediately to the project’s site. Where the photos go, you’ll all have to wait a year to see them, and actually, so will the artists. We can only use film, and we have to wait to develop it in a year. So far, I’ve only submitted one text, but I’ve been taking photos like crazy. Of course, Lomography is going to figure prominently in the work I do. More importantly, what a lovely way to keep art in my life on this special year when things are a little upside down.

Ciao, Nonna

Because many of you who read this are my friends, I assume (perhaps presumptuously) that you already know enough about me to understand the background in what I write about here. And I had a post all ready for you, talking about my recent travels, my travels to come, and the project I’ll be a part of in the next year. I had a lot to tell you.

All that was usurped by my father’s announcement, which wasn’t altogether unexpected: my 90-something-year-old grandmother has passed away. And I want to be fair, here, she was in her 90s. She’s had a long life, full of love and that unique stubborn spirit that seems inherent to Italians. Up to now, she was in control: there was no way she was ending up in a nursing home! And then her body started deciding for her. And then the x-rays came, with lumps and abnormalities and more bad news. And then the only thing doctors could do to provide a peaceful passing was to keep feeding her morphine.

Well, there it is. The circle of life.

Meanwhile, I’m in England feeling a little helpless. There isn’t much that can be done about it. I’m here and I can’t be over there. Then again, I’ve never needed ceremony to go through the rite. In this case, I can grieve without a funeral (at least, that’s what I’m telling myself). Besides, there’s a tiny bit of comfort in knowing that my current travels are fulfilling Nonna’s dreams in their own way.

A bit of history…In the very few trips I made to Sault Saint Marie to visit her, it wasn’t unusual for me to inundate Nonna with questions about my heritage (which was something of a mystery to me until I was 16 years old). Inevitably, I’d learn a lot about her life. She once showed me the oldest photo album she owned, with some pictures dating back to before she was born. Among the pictures of herself and her panoply of sisters was one photo of a young Nonna with her little arms wrapped around a tall, fair-skinned man who wasn’t my grandfather…or Italian!

She told me his name was Donald. He was Irish. He had been her beau before she ever met my grandfather. Donald had promised to marry her. I dare say she looked happier in this photo with Donald than in any of the pictures of her with my grandfather. Maybe it’s because she was. Donald had a job opportunity in Toronto, so he went to see what it was all about. He was supposed to come back, collect Nonna, and start a new life with her in Toronto. But he never returned.

That was Nonna’s short version of the story. I’m sure there was correspondence, an explanation, tears and so forth. I’m sure she and Donald had a rich story as a couple, with nights at the movies, breakfast at Muio’s and inside jokes. But 70 years after the fact, it’s down to a paragraph.

Like many women in their late teens or early 20s at the time, she didn’t want to risk waiting too long to get married. On top of being the norm, it had its economic advantages and it also got you out of your parents’ house. Which isn’t to say Nonna didn’t love my grandfather. There just wasn’t anything silly or youthful about their relationship.

Soon after, when she had children, they became her priority, as it goes for many women. She had hoped, at some point, to leave Sault Saint Marie and expand her world, but with a family to raise, and my grandfather having stakes in the local family business, she would remain in the Sault until she didn’t feel much like travelling anymore. I know she visited Toronto at some point in her life, and maybe more than once. I know she’d been to the United States, since Michigan was a short ride away.

Just the same, when my 20-something father announced his plans to tour Europe on a motorcycle, she admired him for having the nerve to do it. She didn’t send him off without making her worries good and known, but she understood this was something he needed to do, and something she wished she had done sooner in her life. Maybe not on a motorcycle, but the itinerary was pretty much the same.

Later, when I told her I would be moving to Montreal from New Brunswick, she was excited that I was going to experience living in a big city. I tried to convince her to visit me, but she felt she was too old for such a long trip. In the 12 years I spent in Montreal, she encouraged all my whims. And to the idea of me not getting married at a young age, she would say, “It’s different for you kids now. You can date more. You can wait. I think that’s smart!”

By the time I had to make the decision to leave Montreal, albeit temporarily, to go to Europe for approximately a year, I could only tell Nonna in a letter. She could barely hear me on the phone anymore, so it was the best way to give her the news. Before she could write back, she was hospitalized, and the rest is covered at the beginning of this post. But when I spoke to my father a couple of nights ago, he assured me that she was ecstatic about where my journey had taken me.

I don’t want any of this to come across as me saying that my grandmother didn’t live fully. Many people don’t get to experience every little thing they desire in life. In fact, most people don’t. Travelling was one of those things for Nonna, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t fulfilled in every other way.

I know this because she so generously shared the details of the missing half of my life. She told me everything, even if it wasn’t always rose-coloured and lovely, because she was at peace with the truth and wanted me to learn it from that place. She understood her children and grandchildren intimately, even if she was often quiet about it. And I know she was a happy woman because she was so easy to please. Indulging her in a simple game of cards was all it took to make her night (“there are no friends in cards,” she once warned me before a game; and she meant it).

I’m sad she’s gone and I regret not being able to say goodbye in a more ideal way. But I’m also relieved she never made it to that nursing home. The only home she ever wanted to be in was her own. I’m glad her life worked out that way.

“Now I’m the foreigner” moment #1: Accents collide

Location: London-Gatwick train station, at a kiosk that sells pasties and such.

Me: Hi, I just bought this bag of ch…crisps, but they’re soggy.
Vendor: Sorry, louve, wha’ di’ you saye theye wur?
Me: Soggy.
Vendor: Sorry?
Me: (*with useless hand motions) Umm…soggy …stale…not crispy…uh…wanna try one and see? (*handing him over the bag; he breaks one)
Vendor: Oooooh…soggie! Right, ‘ere’s anuhthuh packet, louve.

Boo-Hoo Against the Machine

Look, I know this is a bit of a delayed reaction. In my defense, I’ve been seriously bogged down by things like packing as much of the life that I think I’m going to live in one year, in one and a half suitcases; followed by some serious vacationing in Florida with the in-laws and taking as much of this eternal sunshine in until circumstances take the husband unit and I to Europe for the next year.

This response has been brewing inside me all this time, and it hasn’t come out until now because I just haven’t had a moment to write it all down. Or at least, not to my liking.

I want to talk about an Internet campaign to beat that poor X-Factor kid in the charts by getting people to buy Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the name.” (To those who don’t know, you could say that X-Factor is the U.K. version of American Idol.) Much to my distaste, Tracy and Jon Morter, who started the campaign, were successful in their pursuit, and here’s why I think Rage are a bunch of phonies who duped the lot of you that helped them…

Here’s the thing, because there’s always a thing: no matter what your values may be – left-leaning or not – you can be sure that they’re for sale, somewhere, for a low price…maybe even at Wal-Mart in the music aisle (where, incidentally, you can purchase a censored copy of any Marilyn Manson album).  You can be an advocate of anything Al Gore, and you might even argue that his filmed PowerPoint presentation passes as cinema. The point is that no matter how righteous you believe your opinion may be, you probably have it because at some point, it was bought and sold somewhere, which invariably made it available to a larger audience, who could then propagate that view and bring it to various discussions.

I’m not saying any of this to discourage people from having beliefs or aligning themselves with particular movements. I’m only trying to illustrate that any opinion, even a good one, is not something you acquire because you’re an original (keeping in mind that I don’t exclude myself from this equation). Ideas are formulated in a constant traffic of incoming and outgoing information, and somewhere in there, your own narrative is formed. That part of it is yours, but the things that feed it are borrowed from a bunch of borrowers. As a result, someone like Kurt Cobain would never have existed without an ample amount of exposure to things that he both liked and disliked. More importantly, he wouldn’t have been successful (to the extent that he was) without the support of a record label.

When the “Killing in the name” campaign was launched to boot X-Factor winner Joe McElderry off the number 1 spot in the U.K. singles chart, the motive was to challenge the hold Simon Cowell and his ilk have on the machine that manufactures things like “charts.” I know what you’re going to say: “but Rage said proceeds would go to a charity; but Rage is going to play a free concert in the U.K.” I get it! I’m just saying let’s call this what it is: free press. And with the amount of money Rage already has, it’s a lot like Angelina Jolie donating a cool million to World Vision when she’s worth 100 times that, isn’t it?

We can’t lose sight of who’s ultimately benefitting from this: Rage Against the Machine. Not you music lovers. Not Joe McElderry. And certainly not today’s alternative musicians, who didn’t get to cash in on the “alternative” movement of the early ’90s the way Rage did. And today’s alternative musicians who are musically talented – but not politically inclined – have to gain their acclaim in a way that’s much more organic than how it was done in those glorious early ’90s. They actually have to play live shows as much as they can (regardless of the venue size), they have to update their own Myspace page, they have to produce as much merchandise as they can because every little bit adds up (and might even pay for gas to get to the next show), and they actually have to reach out to their fans by personally answering e-mails and maintaining blogs and websites. Unless they have the great fortune of being featured in an iPod commercial, today’s alternative musicians develop their fan base in a way that’s probably to their disadvantage, though it’s nevertheless fair: democratically. Most don’t benefit from the marketing mechanics that drive label-backed artists, so they just do it all themselves, amassing fans that like what they do despite a lack of radioplay and advertising. And if these musicians eventually get signed, they still have to keep at it. Case in point: Lady Gaga.

Enter 18-year old Joe McElderry, this year’s X-Factor winner. Would he have been discovered at all without the aid of a singing competition? My guess is that he wouldn’t have, even though he has a beautiful voice. Having won X-Factor, what’s next for him is a lame pop record that’s sure to please teens and their grandmothers. At worst,  he’ll be a one-hit wonder (a fate reserved for many singing competition winners). At best, he’s got 4 albums in him, followed by a stint on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here…

Between the two musical acts, I prefer Rage Against the Machine. But I also believe Joe McElderry needs his one-hit-wonder ride more than Rage needs to be on the charts. If anything, sentiments towards “the music industry” are misplaced, especially when Rage is brought into the discourse. In many ways, Rage are no different from Joe McElderry. Without a label, they would never have reached the level of fame that afforded them their fortune (thus allowing them to play free shows). While they don’t have to look like polished pop idols as do most X-Factor winners, you can bet they work just as hard at maintaining their fist-raising revolutionary image. And for alleged leftists, they sure didn’t mind profiting from Che Guevara’s effigy with their “Bombtrack” single (something that would have raised Guevara’s eyebrows). In fact, their leftist construct served them well enough to convince millions of people that a vote for them – a group of signed artists – was a vote against the music industry.

Ultimately, the campaign served Rage rather well. It’s a shame because Rage stole votes from a working-class boy who needed your help more than they do. It’s odd, considering what Rage writes about. You’d think they might have stood up for a working-class hero themselves.

More importantly, the exercise proved how easily it is to sway the public to do anything. I don’t care how this impacts the musical charts, but it’s sad to admit that this happens all too often in the political arena. In that light, I’d like to throw the following out there: instead of voting “against” the person we don’t want, why don’t we make an informed choice about the person we want to vote in? Don’t stand behind Joe McElderry or Rage Against the Machine. Support the person who hasn’t been signed yet.

How singing competitions are a lot like horror movies

Like many Montrealers, I take Halloween seriously. It’s not just an excuse to get dressed up; it’s an opportunity to express that latent part of your personality. Ah yes, and get sloshed with a few of your favourite friends. In due form, I spent one evening preparing my costume with my buddy G, who, incidentally, is a horror movie filmmaker. To entertain us as we worked on our Halloween creations, G asked me to pick something to watch from his extensive slasher collection. His eye lit up when I brought out Night of the Demons.

Before judging us, you have to appreciate that I selected it only because it’s so much worse than you think. From Linnea Quigley’s b-movie training to that disembodied demon head, whose superimposed appearances are clearly being played on a loop. But then there are classic moments: the “lipstick-nipple,” Angela’s grotesque transformation from human to second-hand demon to lead monster, and the razorblade apple pie. True to the genre, those clueless teenagers get viciously massacred one by one, until nobody is left but the Vestian blonde. At least, that’s how I remembered it.

It wasn’t until I saw it again that I realized none of the characters actually die. Except for the two survivors, Angela and gang are merely turned into demons, whether by attempted murder or serious injury (one guy gets his arm chopped off; don’t know how that makes a demon, but that’s for another blog post). Naturally, one of the characters who gets away is poor, virginal, I-just-wanna-cuddle Helen, played by flaxen-haired Allison Barron. The brunettes, sexual deviants, and brown-haired sexual deviants all get it in the end, if not at first.

Today, there was some back-and-forth between Adam Lambert and Out magazine’s editorial staff over the singer’s “handlers” asking the publication to make sure their client didn’t appear too “gay” in their cover story about him. This all reminded me that big gay Glambert only ranked runner-up to squeaky-clean Kris Allen (so immaculate, in fact, that he married his junior high school sweetheart when he was just 23). Will Kris Allen sell more records than Adam Lambert? Of course not. His role will be that of American Idol victor, not successful recording artist. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like Krissypooh! But this is a publicity contest, and Adam Lambert doesn’t need a dull press release to make headlines.

In much the same vein, who did they bring back for the Night of the Demons sequels? That’s right: Angela.

It’s a bit like the Quebec referendum, isn’t it? Quebecers say they want something fresh and revolutionary, but when push comes to shove, the devil you know always wins. On a day-to-day basis, many francophone Quebecers still want that sexy, dirty, dreamy sovereignty, so long as they don’t have to vote for it.

What’s getting tiresome for me is the long, overdrawn process of attrition. In a slasher flick, this describes when (sexually active) characters drop like flies at the hands of a masked murderer/monster. In singing competitions like American Idol and X Factor, it describes those painful weekly eliminations that ultimately betray the audience’s hypocrisy.

Often, the chasm that divides who should have won and who actually won is wide and deep. Why don’t we just own up to our  desires and vote for the Adam Lamberts and Rhydian Robertses of the world? Who cares if they’re gay or worship David Caruso. Shouldn’t our loyalties lie with the people who interest us most? This isn’t like separating a country; it’s about performance! I don’t remember a single thing that Kris Allen sang, but I recall specific Glambert hairdos. And most people agree the latter was the better singer.

Do we really need more disappointing post-competition careers from our safe choices? Let’s have some fun! Let’s give ourselves what we want!

Does this mean that Jedward are growing on me? Goodness no! They’re really terrible. But like Angela, no matter what happens to them, they’ll come back. The good news is, they’re both blonde, and they’re very likely virgins.

Little lady, are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna jump?

There are many reasons I don’t feel the need to skydive. Most of them are related to some measure of fear: what if the ‘chute doesn’t open; extreme heights; that rickety old plane.

But now, I’m about to face a fear worse than the prospect of skydiving: change.

And not just any old change. Extreme change. Moving-to-a-different-continent change. Thankfully, it’s temporary. I’m coming back, but probably only in a year or so. It’s exciting, because I lived in Germany as a young girl, and going back to Europe is something I’ve always wanted to do. But with this event came the realisation that by “going back to Europe,” what I really meant was, “so long as I get to return to Montreal.”

The thing is, I’ve built a whole life here. Even if I’m never exactly sure what my career path is supposed to be, I love living in Montreal. It’s precisely how I’ve always wanted to live, and how I’ve been living for about 12 years.

This Europe thing was mostly theoretical until the husband unit booked our tickets a couple of days ago. That’s when it all became real. Very real. And that’s when the “little things” caught up to me.

The “little things” are the things I’ll miss. Don’t get me wrong: I’m completely looking forward to visiting Europe. I honestly can’t wait. But Montreal has become my own little couch groove. I’m not already getting nostalgic. It’s more like I’m doubly appreciating what I have here before I go off and get over-stimulated by European travel.

In the past couple of days, I’ve been revisiting these little things, without really knowing that this is what they were beforehand. One of them was eating a delicious vegan meal alone at the bar at Aux Vivres. I used to do it a lot when I found myself freelancing back in 2002. I spent most of that winter going to their old location on St-Dominique, sitting myself at the bar, and ordering their “surprise” soup of the day with some goopy cashew-buttered chapati. Complete with some reading material, it made my midday.

There are a bunch of other little things, like the Farfelu window display, the crunchy dried leaves bunched up on sidewalk edges (autumn rocks in Montreal!), and couples getting extra cozy at the first sign of a winter breeze.

Some people leave a place in a right huff. They’re ready to call it quits and storm off. That’s exactly what I did with Moncton some 12 years ago. But this is different. I’m looking forward to leaving and to coming back. Equally, at that. I’m glad the husband unit and I get to do something like this before “real life” kicks in. It’s a slight change to our regularly scheduled programming, but I just know it’ll be well worth the leap.

Grumly: The Don’t-Care Bear

Though I absolutely fell in love with the Niagara region, it has the unfortunate plight of being attached to Niagara Falls, which is, from every angle, a one-trick pony. It’s not a bad thing. I think the town knows it and does its best to help you see what you came to see from every angle, and at a very reasonable price.

In a way, it makes me wish certain companies were more comfortable with the fact that one of their given products doesn’t do it all, and won’t satisfy every need or every demographic.

Take Grumly, the teddy bear that only has one distinguishing quality: squeeze its tummy and it lets out a slightly sustained grumbling sound. Otherwise, it doesn’t look like much. But you have to love how the ads zero in all the things Grumly is not. It kinda makes you feel for the guy. My French friends will have to tell me whether or not Grumly became as popular as these ads should have made him.

Sorry, it’s only funny in French.

Nupped up

For those of you who know a little bit about me, I can hardly believe it either. I’ve never been the kind of woman that needed to get married to prove anything to anyone. But here I am. Married. And it’s nice for many reasons.

For one, it’s just sunk in that I’m officially not alone. I’ll admit that this is the weirdest part for me. I got used to my solitary rhythm. I had it down to a science. Now, every decision requires a vote, and that can be challenging for the modern bachelorette. The upshot is that I’m no longer flying solo through turbulent times, and that’s something I can definitely get used to.

Before the husband unit and I decided to take the plunge, his father advised us to make it as special as possible, because we only get one shot at the big day. That’s when I started doing what most brides-to-be probably do: I bought a wad of bridal mags and started sifting through reams of ideas. The fact is, I haven’t spent most of my girlhood dreaming of the perfect wedding. I wasn’t a pessimist so much as an opportunist: I figured I’d think about it if the situation ever presented itself. So here I was, flipping through these magazines, trying to pull something together, and fast.

It’s not easy. Every detail comes with its own lexicon of details. Nobody gives you a discount. Everybody has an opinion on what you should do (based on what they would do on their own big day; not what you want to do on yours). And none of this changes even if you agree on a small wedding.

Nevertheless, it all came together quite beautifully. I believe I have a solid group of friends to thank for that. Seriously: I really lucked out here. Of the 48 or so guests, about 50% of them were somehow involved in the wedding. With their help, we didn’t have to worry about music, transportation, photography, graphic design, delivering and placing chairs for the ceremony, hair, makeup, the family dinner, and fashion. My father, who’s a jeweler, also made our rings, which was the cherry on top.

Was it a perfect day? Absolutely. Did everything go as planned? Absolutely not. But it’s funny how it just doesn’t matter in the end.

Think Lizzie

The following is something I submitted to Bitchin’ Kitchen for consideration. It didn’t quite make it, but I still think it’s a good read. Enjoy!

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Guilty Crush of the Week: Elizabeth Berkley

If we’re measuring guilt by the number of times “just awful” has been used to describe my crush’s acting, then I’m doomed to haul brimstone with the adulterers and coveters.

Here’s the thing. Despite the efforts of a respected indie film director, Elizabeth Berkley’s acting is really that bad. There are no two ways about it. Sure, we can blame it on the writing (like when she sings “I’m so excited” and starts wailing “I’m so scared” on that don’t-do-drugs episode of Save by the Bell, where her character, you know, does drugs). But at the end of the day, it’s about the choices she makes as an actress (come on, Showgirls, do people really throw fries in a huff when their rescuer just wants to help?). When she was paired with David Caruso on CSI:Miami, playing his character’s ex-lover, you had to wonder if the producers were secretly betting on who’d win the subtlety war.

So why is Elizabeth crush-worthy? ‘Cause girl got gumption! Despite one epic fail after the next, Lizzie keeps marching on. You have to admire that in a person, especially if there’s a chance that delusion is the mystery ingredient holding the recipe together. Plus, she has a sense of humour about herself, even when interviewed about the things she’s (in)famous for.

And this is where it starts to smell of Suzanne Somers. The next time her attempt at serious drama makes you chuckle, remember that Smirky Berkley is laughing all the way to the bank! Her turn on CSI is nothing short of cringe-o-matic, but her episodes are among the highest rated (maybe it’s a train-wreck thing). Perhaps realizing the limitations of her acting chops, she turned to reality TV to take on the gruelling yet rewarding life of professional dancers, winning over a comfy niche. And last we heard, her Ask-Elizabeth self-help program was being parlayed into a show on MTV. They say no one will hire her, but somehow, she’s still on the payroll.

All I know is that if ever I’m on the cusp of obscurity because of a monumentally horrible performance, I only hope I can sashay some of Elizabeth Berkley’s sass all the way to the next gig.

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It is my earnest opinion that few things are funnier than a Bitchin’ Kitchen video. If you haven’t watched any yet, it’s about time you did.

Where Livvyjams been at

Okay, I admit it. I’ve been bad. Real bad.

I haven’t posted a blog in almost a month and  a half, and to be honest, I’ve missed it. I’m actually a little embarrassed that there are no archives for July. But here’s why: I’ve been real busy, like. Trust me, this isn’t a brush-off. You know I’m committed to this thing we have going on, you and me. It’s just that for the first time ever, I’m actually seeing one of my personal projects through, and that means there’s less time for blogging. I thought I could manage both, but it turns out that one needs to outperform the other, and it’s apparently best if the distraction doesn’t win this round.

Saying that, I hope I’m not jinxing it by talking about something that’s not finished yet. But we’re far enough along that it’s unlikely to be abandoned, so I think I’m allowed to be excited.

The project? It’s a series of webisodes. The scripts are written, which took forever. We’ve had auditions. We’re almost completely cast. And in September, if all goes well, shooting begins. Naturally, I have to use this blog to talk about this project as it progresses. It would be stupid not to. So stay tuned…

Otherwise, many other things have been keeping me busy. I’m a bit reluctant to share extremely private information here, but then, most of those who read me are friends (by the way: thanks), so I suppose it’s okay to talk about it.

I’m getting hitched. Very soon. In less than a month. And planning a wedding, even a small one, is something only crazy people would undertake willingly if they actually knew, in advance, what it entails. Maybe you’ve thought about it your whole life, which is fair enough. But I can guarantee you’re not prepared for the wedding vortex, which is made up of a plausible infinity of details you thought you were too cool to care about…until you realize you’re just as vain as everyone else. All I know is I thought I was the “hip” bride who just wanted things simple and clean, but once flowers were introduced to the equation, I suddenly became very concerned with how it would all come together. And before you know it, I’m going through 3 florists just to get it right.

In all this, I’m still freelancing when wedding plans and webisodes aren’t conquering my schedule. I wouldn’t call the state I’m in auto-pilot. It’s more like “constant-pilot,” and I fuel up at some gas station in the sky.

Despite the serious time shortage, I’ve been able to take in a few noteworthy things. And they’re as follows.

1. The ceremony is not sacred.
2. The marriage is.
3. Marrying someone is like inheriting a new family, and that’s exciting. The married couple also becomes a new family onto themselves, and it’s great to share that little bubble with someone. I won’t lie.
4. You don’t need to be get married to experience “the bubble.” In fact, people should recognize it out of wedlock more often.
5. There are a good many things that go into a wedding, and almost none of them really mean that your partner loves you. Not the ring, not the venue, not the limo, not the boutonnière, and definitely not the cake. The only real thing is what you know you and your partner share. The rest is just a party.

In completely unrelated news, I’ve posted a second blog on the new Lomography site, and it prompted me to experiment with my new Diana camera. It doesn’t give the same sort of results as my beloved Holga, but it’s interesting just the same. The above picture is from my first roll. It may not be the best photo I’ve ever taken, but I can’t wait to keep experimenting. I have more fun trying than perfecting. Is that wrong?