Tracy Wright: The light that will never go out.

On June 23rd, 2010, I received an email I'd been hoping was a long way off. Tracy Wright, the brilliant, beloved Canadian stage and screen actress, had passed away the day before. While it was far preferable and much kinder to hear it from Don McKellar, her husband and frequent collaborator, than to see it on the news (as so many others did), there was simply no way to dull the pain of hearing that she had lost the fight against cancer, and that we in turn had lost her.

I've long neglected this blog for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that I've not had a lot to say. It's still too raw, too surreal, to say much of substance, but if anything could move me to write again, it's Tracy. I'll never do her justice, but that won't stop me from trying.

Back when I was just a little kid, Tracy lived in the third bedroom of our apartment. She and my uncle had been dating for some time, and my family adored her, though perhaps nobody more than me. She had a crazy way of doing things, and was a constant source of laughter and music and cheer in our household; she was a fantastic playmate for me, too, and was certainly creative when it came time to watch over me for an afternoon. One of my mother's favourite examples of this took place when I was only three years old: Upon returning to our apartment from an afternoon out, my mother greeted Tracy and me, and asked how we'd spent the day.

"Oh, we did some singing," Tracy replied. Mom naturally assumed that I'd been giving ever-patient Tracy the preschool version of opera by way of Sesame Street, until Tracy added, "Heather, sing the song I taught you for your mom!"

My mother smiled and waited to hear some familiar kids' show tunes, but instead, she was surprised - and endlessly amused - when I opened my mouth and began to sing Ronnie Hawkins' "Who Do You Love," just the way Tracy had shown me to belt it out.

For anyone who doesn't know the song, and isn't sure why hearing it sung by a three year old would be hilarious, have a listen:

Yep. Tracy was the best kind of zany. She was the poster child for the saying, "To know her is to love her." And I did. We all did. Had she and my uncle chosen to get married, I couldn't have asked for a better aunt. And, marriage or not, she had already become very much a part of our family.

[ Above: My Uncle Dan and Tracy, circa 1981 - I'll ask around to see if I can verify the date - on one of our many trips to High Park. ]

[ Above: Letters to me from my Uncle Dan, who never neglected to tell me somewhere in there that "Tracy says hi!" Click to enlarge. ]

As it turned out, marriage wasn't in the cards for Tracy and my uncle, and over time we all lost touch with her. We knew she had gone to pursue a career in acting, and every so often we would catch a glimpse of her in a movie or on TV, and we would wonder aloud how she was doing, if she was happy, and I always wondered if she ever thought of me, or even remembered me. Even as a young girl I knew she was one of the funniest people I would ever meet.

Fast forward many years. After taking a couple of film classes in university, I began watching movies more critically, and it wasn't long before I discovered the genius that is Don McKellar. When I first saw his 1998 masterpiece, "Last Night", it shot straight up into my Top 10 Favourite Movies Of All Time, and has never lost its spot. Of course, there was an added bonus to the film, too: Tracy was one of the stars. I loved her role; I loved the way Don wrote it, and I loved the way Tracy brought it to life. She had a sweetness and a vulnerability to her that made the audience connect to her, and she carried those qualities with her into other roles. Even now, when I mention an indie film in which Tracy appeared, friends who aren't as familiar with her work will ask which part she played, and invariably they'll follow it up with, "Oh, wow - she was my favourite character!"

In the summer of 2005, I happened to catch a movie after work one night. It was called "Me And You And Everyone We Know", and I knew nothing about it aside from having heard that it was being very well received by audiences and critics alike. Imagine my surprise when, only a few scenes in, there was Tracy, larger than life on the big screen in front of me. I thoroughly enjoyed the film, but the performance that really stood out for me (and made me cry right there in the theatre) was hers. It was then that I decided to roll the dice and write her a letter, telling her how much I'd loved her portrayal of Nancy, who has what I and many others feel is the most poignant scene in the film. I figured that, even if she had no recollection of who I was, she deserved to get accolades for a job so very well done. I took a shot in the dark with the address I chose, enclosed a photo of a family wedding in which she'd been a bridesmaid and I'd been the flower girl (cheesily circling each of us and scrawling, "There's me...and you...and...well, you know how it goes!" on the back), and sent it off.

A few months later, having very nearly forgotten that I'd posted that letter, I came home from work one evening and - lo and behold! - there was an email awaiting me, what she called a "long overdue reply" to my letter. She had even put "tracy wright - thanking you for your letter" in the subject line; that was how unassuming she was. She never expected me to remember her (!!!), and said that she was so happy to hear from me: "i thank you again for your kind words and for making the effort to write. i remember you very fondly as a little girl. i am amazed if you remember me at all actually....you were pretty young. but, i always thought you were a special kid. [...] i didnt have a lot of experience with kids ... but, in any case, it was something i felt. so there." I couldn't help but smile. She also made mention of the current happy state of her life, and once again she showed how completely modest and unassuming she was: "i am in a relationship with don mckellar (he's the guy who directed 'last night')and we live together in a nice house with our adorable little cat pinky. [...] so....life is pretty good."

Yeah, I was fairly sure I'd heard of that McKellar guy. And to find out that they were living contentedly in a lovely part of the city made me very happy. She'd always been so good to me, and she - the queen of the understatement! - deserved to have her life being "pretty good," at the very least.

We stayed in touch over the following five years, and I was lucky enough to see her perform Daniel MacIvor's fantastic play, "A Beautiful View", with Caroline Gillis.

[ Caroline and Tracy in "A Beautiful View" ]

It was lovely to see one another again after so many years, and it was an honour to meet Caroline and Don, both of whom were very important people in her life. With Tracy, you always got the feeling that, if someone had gotten her stamp of approval, they must be pretty extraordinary. When she introduced me to Don, I considered that proof positive. They were a match that was a delight to behold.

And this is where the story turns tragic.

I happened to catch an interview with Don on "The Hour" one evening at the start of 2010, and noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring. Intrigued, I did a quick Google search, and was over the moon when I read that he and Tracy had tied the knot after so many years together. I immediately sent her a sappy email brimming with my congratulations and wishing them both nothing but the best.

The email I got in response, only hours later, was devastating. Yes, she said, she and Don had gotten married, and it had been a very happy occasion...but she added that she wanted to tell me something before I heard it from anyone else. She'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few weeks earlier, and the prognosis was not good. I felt as though someone had kicked me in the gut. This wasn't fair. She was so young and healthy and happy. And, selfishly, I wanted more time with her, more chances to see her perform, more everything.

I set about doing the only thing I knew how to do: I started sending her little things in the mail. Postcards from my travels. A chocolate bar with the wartime slogan "Keep Calm And Carry On" emblazoned across its package, which, as she pointed out in her thank-you email, made it "not only delicious, but inspirational." I happened to meet up with her friend Bruce McDonald, another great Canadian director, while acting as an extra in his upcoming film project, and I asked him to pose for a photo with me where we'd wave at the camera and I'd email it to Tracy to make her smile. It worked; I got a message back the next morning thanking me for thinking of her.

She fought hard right up to the end. She finished more than one project while she was still well enough to do so, and has therefore left us with things to which we can look forward. Hundreds upon hundreds of people turned up to her visitation yesterday - so many, in fact, that the messages of love from her friends and family in the condolence book drained the ink out of two pens in 3 hours, and I'm sure the third pen (which was the one I left for others to use before heading out) was well on its way to running dry, too. As I said to Don and several others, it was a true testament to Tracy's impact on the lives of everyone she touched, that so many words of love, kindness and sorrow were being left that they were demanding a fresh supply of writing implements.

That's just the kind of woman Tracy was.

Whether you had the great fortune of meeting her, or have enjoyed seeing her on stage or on screen, consider yourselves lucky. It's rare for a Tracy Wright to come along in life. I'll be forever grateful that she was a part of mine, and whenever I miss her - which will be often, I know - I can put in one of her movies and remember everything about her that was talented, and lovable, and completely, thoroughly unique.

I can remember her, Tracy Lauren Wright, as the light that will never go out on the Canadian stages she graced, and in my heart.

In lieu of flowers, a donation in her honour may be made online to the Toronto Arts Council Foundation, or in person/by mail at 141 Bathurst Street, Toronto M5V 2R2.

ETA: Another big loss for Canada befell us when the great Maury Chaykin passed away on July 27th, 2010, his 61st birthday. For a beautiful piece written by Daniel MacIvor about both Tracy and Maury, please check out "Blue/This Is Was".

Also worth noting: "TRIGGER," Tracy's project with Daniel, Don, Molly Parker, and Bruce McDonald, will be screening at the Toronto International Film Festival on September 12th, 2010 and will open in other theatres two weeks later. It will be a lovely way to remember her.

NaNoWriMo is over. Donation time begins.

The real entry is actually over at my WordPress blog, but for whatever reason, I wasn't able to embed the PayPal button - meant for accepting memorial donations for Martin Streek - over there. For the whole explanation, head on over to WordPress. If that's where you've just come from, here's the button you're looking for:

One of these days, I swear I'll update this blog properly again. For now, though, I'm just relieved that I broke 50K, won NaNoWriMo, and accomplished something long overdue. Thank you, again, to everyone who's supported me. Stay tuned - the book will remain Project #1 for me until it's in readable shape, so here's hoping I can do it justice.

NaNoWriMo = Radio Silence.

I know. I've been terribly neglectful of my blog here. In truth, I've been neglectful of just about everything for the past couple of months; I was in pretty rough shape upon my return from Edinburgh, health-wise, and am as always struggling to regain some kind of equilibrium. (Sad, isn't it? I've been back since the end of August, for crying out loud.)


What's been taking most of my attention and energy at the moment, though, is something about which many of you know all too well, having survived it yourselves or, at the very least, having been part of someone's cheering section (maybe even mine): NaNoWriMo. Yes, November is National Novel Writing Month, and yes, once again I'm putting myself through the wringer. This time, though, it's different.


Remember my farewell entry to Martin Streek? I do. Vaguely. And I remember saying that, come hell or high water, I would finish the book he knew I was writing. He was, after all, the inspiration behind it. I'd started my first draft back in 2006, when it seemed like we had all the time in the world... Martin was quick to give me whatever access I needed to do "research" (and yes, it was as much fun as it sounds - and no, that wasn't meant to sound vulgar! I simply meant that "doing research" by going out clubbing isn't exactly the toughest job in the world, especially with a guy like Martin holding up the velvet ropes for me anywhere I went). He was endlessly amused at the ideas I had for his alter ego. He'd already been a fan of my writing for almost a decade before that, and I guess it was gratifying for both of us to see me try to go "legit," especially since he'd had such a significant hand in it.


Anyway. That's all very well-covered ground by now. I just wanted to post something here - for those of you who've only been peripherally aware of where the hell I've been and what on earth I'm up to - to say that yes, I'm using NaNo as the kick in the backside I so obviously need to finally give this book the life it deserves. It's been an agonizingly slow process. I know what I want to write, but each time I sit down to do so, I find myself overwhelmed by memories, emotion, and the inescapable fact that Martin will never read it. To further motivate myself, I've opted to add even more incentive: If I do, indeed, reach the goal of 50,000 words by November 30th, I'll be pledging money to a very important charity, one that seems appropriate not only because of the subject matter of the book, but because of the man who inspired me to write in the first place.





I'm way behind in my word count so far. But there's time to catch up yet. I'm not giving up, no matter how many tears I cry or how many times I hear myself saying, "You can't do it. You're not worthy of this. Quit while you're ahead." I have to ignore that voice, because there's more at stake this time than just the self-congratulatory pat on the back that will come when I hit 50K. There are people who are pledging money to the charity alongside me, and...it matters. So I'm not quitting. I will soldier on.


If you'd like to watch my progress and give me the occasional smack upside the head when I falter, start here. If you want to show your support by becoming my "fan" on Facebook, there's a page for that, too. If you want to pledge to the charity, let me know via one of my many contact routes. And come November 30th, one way or another, I'll be back to let everyone who's supporting me know that I did it, and can only hope that, if the man behind it all were still here with us, he'd be proud.


Thank you. To everyone who's had my back so far. You know who you are.

Kiwi: Three years later and I still sob!

I don't cry a lot. I mean, I'm not one of those people who often finds herself getting misty in the Hallmark aisle, or gets that lower lip trembling at Tim Horton's commercials. (Okay, yeah, maybe one or two of those cell phone ads a few years back, but...cut me some slack, here. I'm trying to make a point.) And as much as I loathe all things Seinfeld (yes! I SAID IT ALOUD! ...surely enough for another entry on its own), I must say, as far as people who tear up easily go: "Not that there's anything wrong with that..." Some of my oldest and best friends get all soppy over the strangest things. I judge not, lest I be judged on the one day someone happens across me as I'm watching "Kiwi". Because that day? That day you'll find me face down in a pile of Kleenex.

Oh, would you look at that? TODAY IS THAT DAY. Again. I'm narrowing my puffy eyes at a certain friend from elementary school who posted a link on Facebook, but how was she to know that Kiwi and I have had a troubled history that goes back several years? It's okay, Tammy. I forgive you.



A small group of you are privy to my off-site locked blog (est. 2001!), and may remember the day I posted about an animation I'd come across that had surely caused a spike in tissue stock for the quarter. It'll take some doing to find that entry, but I'll transcribe it here when I do. I vividly recall several of my friends saying they weren't able to watch "Kiwi" and had no idea why I was weeping all over my keyboard; I guess the link I'd posted had gone down from traffic before most could see what the fuss was all about. I also remember, however, that several good friends posted countless comments containing their most adorable YouTube finds to cheer me up, even without having seen the sad little video about which I was blubbering. Now, see, I really need to find that entry, 'cos you're gonna need those happy, fluffy distractions after you watch "Kiwi."

Notice I didn't say, "if you watch" it. Because you know you're gonna. And you won't feel bad about yourself afterward, since it's nothing like rubber-necking or Train Wreck Syndrome. It's a cartoon, at its base, and how can you be a bad person for watching a cartoon? No, the only reason you're gonna feel bad is because POOR KIWI AUGH.

From the maker of this short and, clearly, utterly unforgettable masterpiece: My Master's Thesis Animation, which I completed while I was at The School of Visual Arts, MFA Computer Art, in New York City. Created using Maya, After Effects, and rigged using The Setup Machine by Anzovin studios. If you would like to download there is a small version at my website: www.donysanimation.com. Damn. I'd have given this student his/her degree on the spot.

So shut up already! you're all saying. Let me see what has you sobbing like a three year old, when not even those brutal infomercials make you blink! Yes, yes, fine. A few words of advice, though: Don't read the comments left at the YouTube page before watching the clip. Go in blind and completely unprepared, as I was when I first saw this in 2006. I've already given you an enormous advantage by telling you that it made me cry; had I not said such a thing, you, too, would be staring at the incredibly cute little bird on your screen in mere moments and thinking, "Awwwww! This is adorable!" And then, just like mine did, your face would slowly contort into an expression that would be the offline equivalent of "WTF?!?" and then "OMG" and...well. You'll see.

All right. Secure a handkerchief. Join the club. Take the plunge. Watch "Kiwi."



...is it over yet? Can I stop hiding my eyes?

If you're among the people who don't understand what the hell you just saw, there is, apparently, a helpful site with some sort of FAQ here: http://www.isfat.com/happyjunk/kiwi.php. I for one had no problem absorbing its message - although "absorbing" makes it sound as though it was a slow and gentle recognition, rather than the slap across the face to which I'd rather liken it - but I've seen a lot of puzzled comments elsewhere, so if you're looking for insight, you know where to go.

I really ought to leave a note for the person who created this animation. Something that would convey how oddly and unexpectedly powerful s/he managed to make an under-three-minute-long MFA project. Because, really...I'd long forgotten about little Kiwi, three years later and having only ever watched it once; yet all I had to do was glimpse the freeze-frame on my Facebook news feed and it all came rushing back. That is the mark of something pure. Yes, it's something that made me cry, but not in the way that a commercial for the Humane Society or the Hospital For Sick Children does. It's...different. It's...just different. And it makes you think, in a very introspective way. It doesn't surprise me to see that "Kiwi" now has its own IMDb page. I haven't looked at the Discussion Boards yet, but I'm guessing, by the millions of views on YouTube, that there are a lot of people marvelling at this beautiful little wonder as much as I have.

By the by, if the original didn't quite accomplish the feat of wrenching a tear from your eye, DO YOU EVEN HAVE A SOUL??? you now have the option of having Gary Jules hurt your heart EVEN MORE at no extra cost. Just sayin'.

Quoting The Beatles is much more my style than referring back to Seinfeld, so I'll just leave you with the video, your tissues, and whatever you take from seeing that precious little bird, and will simply state: I can say no more.



P.S. http://www.savethekiwi.org.nz/!!!

Martin Streek: My unlikely muse.

Since Martin's passing on July 6th, I've been very much at a loss for words...or, at least, for the right words. My first draft of this blog entry took five pages just to explain how our paths first crossed in 1997; a second draft was so disjointed and scrambled that it was clear I wasn't ready to write about him yet. Usually putting my thoughts down on paper, or onto the screen of my laptop, is cathartic...but in the days and now weeks since we lost the man that so many of us loved in so many different ways, I've been surprised again and again by just how shell-shocked I've been left with him gone. Words haven't helped. And considering the fact that it was my writing which sparked our friendship 12 years ago, I've felt even more lost without it.


[ click photo to go to Martin's site & hear the on-air tributes done for him by the lovely Dave Marsden as well as a 3-hour 102.1 The Edge special dedicated to him. Sadly, as of 2010, the site is no more. The playlist, however, can be found here. ]

The story of how Martin Streek became someone I considered a friend is an amusing one. I've ditched the first draft and will spare you the painstaking details of our rather inauspicious beginnings, but suffice it to say that, when I found myself completely blocked for a writing assignment in university, the divine idea of using Martin's larger-than-life personality as inspiration ended up getting me an 'A'. We hadn't even really met by that point, beyond saying hello at the nightclubs in which he worked and I partied, but I could have written epic novels about this man, who was armed with such charisma and energy, with only the barest of introductions. At some point, on a drunken post-party evening on my university campus, my roommate Chris dared me to stop in at UW's computer lab and email this Streek fellow, and to tell him I'd gotten a good grade by virtue of him simply existing. Chris looked up Martin's email address, and I followed through on the dare. You can imagine my surprise, in the midst of a nasty hangover the following day, when I found a response from Mr. Streek himself, insisting that he ought to read what I'd written and asking if I'd send it along to him.

I did. And that led to a lengthy back-and-forth between us via email. He even commissioned me to write more short pieces for him (I suppose my version of him was a flattering one), and eventually, as a token of his gratitude for indulging him, he'd put me permanently on his guest lists at the clubs I loved so much. I was always written down as "Heather/Hilary", a nod to the pseudonym all of my writings for him had borne. When at last we met and had a longer face to face conversation than just a casual hello or goodbye, I knew this was a guy I wanted to get to know better. I'd never met anyone like him before. That's easy enough to say, really, since I was barely 21 at that point...but now, a dozen years later, I can still say I've never met anyone like him. He was unparalleled in so many ways - he was hilarious, incredibly smart, engaging, and there was always so much to learn from him. He had a knack for providing random bits of trivia about nearly everything, from music and pop culture to literature and politics, and everything in between. He was a great debater; we had plenty of heated face-offs over the years. The bottom line: There was nothing about the man that wasn't interesting.



When he and my mother first met, I had no clue whether she would agree with my assessment. But within moments of my introduction, I was impressed by how respectful and genuinely fond he seemed of her. The feeling was mutual. He could relate to anyone, changing like a chameleon to fit every situation without needing to be phony. My mother, a good judge of character, was immediately charmed, and though they only met a handful of times after that first evening, she always had a soft spot for him. It didn't hurt that his admiration for his own mother, Grace, was so plain. Martin could act like a badass, a tough guy, the leader of the crazy three-ring circus made up of Toronto's nightlife and his countless admirers, but he wasn't afraid to pull back the curtain every so often and allow us to see the depth and kindness that were just as big a part of who he was.

We had occasion over the years to talk about serious stuff, too. I remember a lengthy conversation we had about a particularly tough break-up through which he was going, and I felt honoured that he trusted me enough to know that he didn't have to be "on" when I was around. He told me so many great stories about his brothers, about his parents, about his incredible experiences with famous people that most would give anything to have met... If ever I had a friend who wanted to interview him for their campus newspaper, or to photograph him for their portfolio, or to pick his brain about how to break into the radio business, he never hesitated. He was generous with his time and never once made my friends feel as though he was put out in the least. I can't think of anything I ever asked of him that he didn't do.

I could go on for pages listing examples, but two jump immediately to mind. One took place at a birthday party that one of our mutual friends was throwing for me. Despite it taking place on one of his precious nights off, he came by long enough to buy me a drink and give me a hug. I found out later that he'd gone straight to the hospital in a taxi once he left, because he'd hurt his back while skateboarding earlier that day. The guy was in enough pain to warrant medical attention, but he still didn't miss my birthday. That's the kind of man he was.

The other instance took place a few years later. I'd gone to one of his Sunday club nights to see him and visit with friends, and at some point I realized my very expensive and beloved watch had stopped working. Martin fiddled with it for a minute or two, to no avail, and then mysteriously excused himself. Twenty minutes later, he was back, looking victorious and saying he had something for me...and out of his pocket he pulled a watch made of candy. He said he and a friend had "broken into" Sugar Mountain, the candy store down the block from the club, but I never knew what really happened (or if his friend was in fact the owner of the shop). All I knew was that such a gesture was sweeter than the candy itself.

That terrible night and morning, when the reality of Martin being gone forever was beginning to sink in, I was alone. I cried harder than I can ever recall doing before, my sobs coming from a place so deep that I never even knew existed. I'd sent him a goofy note on Facebook less than 24 hours before he died. We'd waved to each other only a few weeks earlier while attending the same concert. He'd scrawled all over my Facebook wall about Peter Murphy, an artist we both love, only days before that. It just didn't seem possible that this man, who had fought his way through so many tough moments in his life and was, in my eyes, finally the best possible version of himself...it wasn't possible that he was gone. But he was. He is.



For whatever reason, as I wandered around my house at 5 a.m. in shock, I immediately thought of that candy watch. I'd never taken it out of its tiny plastic bag, and was, even in my disorienting grief, pretty sure I knew where I'd kept it. Sure enough, it was still in the pocket of the purse I'd had with me the night he gave it to me. I'd carried it with me for years; I've no idea why. But that morning, I was desperate to have a tangible piece of my history with him. A touchstone, of sorts. It has been brought out of its dark little hiding place now, and is on display in my house, where I see it every day and manage to smile.

I cried a lot for days. Still do. I cried for myself, knowing I would never again have a silly Sunday morning email exchange with him about x-rated album covers or whatever other fluffy things we'd discuss. I cried for the friends of his who were closer to him than I'd ever been, for I couldn't imagine how much more painful his loss would be for them. And I cried for his family. He loved them so much. I knew that, if they loved him just as much in return (and surely they do), they must be devastated.

In the last three years of his life, he'd given me access to whatever nightlife research I needed to do, because at long last I was going to attempt to parlay my skill (according to him, anyway) for storytelling into a bona fide novel. The central character? Yeah. You guessed it. I told Martin about his alter ego, and he was so supportive any time we talked about my slow-as-molasses progress. He even wrote some words of encouragement on the last page of the rough draft's notebook, addressing me as always by my real name as well as my nom de plume. Those scribbles will forever be one of the most precious reminders of him.



I never did get around to telling him that I planned to give the book a title meant to honour him.

This is where I ask for your help. Martin was my muse for so many years; if ever I was stuck for something to write, he somehow managed to kick me back into creative gear. Now that he's gone, I feel like it's more important than ever for me to commit myself fully to finishing this book, the one about which he'd always ask as we drank mochaccinos and caught up on each other's latest travels and travails. It will no doubt break my heart to pick up that pen again, but I want to do him proud. I want to prove that he was right, that I didn't need luck to write it, that skill would get me through. I need you, my friends, to make sure that I don't find any more excuses to drag my feet. I need to not forget what a kick Martin would've gotten out of it, had I managed to finish a proper draft while he was still here.



I will miss him always. He left a void that nothing can ever fill. But maybe - just maybe - finally finishing "Locked & Cranked" is the best tribute to him I can ever make. Please, for him, don't let me fail at the last thing I can do in his memory.





[ ETA: There are countless news articles and posts floating around in cyberspace about our Martin. Some contain misleading or outright incorrect information. After sifting through far too many, I always come back to the same ones, those that stand head and shoulders above the others, written by people who knew and loved the man. To see him through the eyes of friends other than myself, I highly recommend reading "Thoughts About Martin Streek" by Kneale Mann, "Martin Streek: This Charming Man" by Alan Cross, "Martin Streek Remembered" by Liisa Ladouceur, and "Martin Streek: RIP" by Fred Patterson. As mentioned above, the on-air tribute by Dave Marsden is an absolute must-hear as well; if anyone knows of a current, working link, please let me know so I can replace it appropriately. And if you must read one "official" news report, the only one I'd suggest is posted on the website of the Toronto Star. ]


[ **JUNE 2010:** TO DONATE TO ONE OF MARTIN'S FAVOURITE CHARITIES: Go to his legacy page at the Princess Margaret Hospital website, read the wonderful story about his longtime support, and make a donation in his name to the Ride To Conquer Cancer foundation by clicking on the link to Martin's page. To everyone who pledged during NaNoWriMo 2009 and helped us raise $1,000 for the cause, and to all who've contacted me to ask about how you can continue to keep his memory alive by giving: Thank you so very much. I made sure the donation cards reached his brother. ]

"Escape To Canada" - Must-See TV

Okay, I rarely see a documentary that affects me so deeply, but if ever there has been a moment wherein I've been prouder to be Canadian, I can't think of one.


I beg of you, see "Escape To Canada".


I actually burst into tears several times. Once was when several gay American couples came to Toronto in 2003 to get married, and n none of their family members had agreed to come to support them...but more than a thousand complete strangers from Canada turned up to throw confetti after they said their vows.

Once was when the mayor of Vancouver made an impassioned speech about how no other country is going to dictate drug policies to him, and that he wants to legislate the permanent decriminalization of marijuana, and control and tax it just like alcohol, and pour every tax dollar back into the B.C. health care system.

Once was hearing some American military deserters - all of whom had already served at least one tour of duty in the Middle East - explaining why they couldn't go back, and what would happen to them if they are (were) ever caught by Bush's government.

And just now I got teary-eyed again when it was shown that, in 2005, Canada's version of Webster's Dictionary changed the definition of marriage to be "the union between two people".



It's not anti-American at all (it's just anti-Bill O'Reilly and anti-Ann Coulter). It's as critical of our PM Harper as it is of Bush. One U.S. citizen summed it up very well by saying, "We're not in Canada because we don't love America; we're in Canada because there are more freedoms here than there are in the land of the free. You can love both countries for different reasons." And there's a lot of celebration of California, too, which seems to be a state that has been adopted as Canada's sibling somehow.

(Watching Pierre Berton explain how best to roll a joint, using one of his own hardcover bestsellers, is definitely a hilarious highlight. Hearing Jean Chrétien basically say, "Uh, non, screw the war in Afghanistan, merci," ranks up there, too.)


The whole thing is fascinating - I've learned more about my own country in two hours than I did in all of my years in high school. The push and pull over laws governing gay marriage, marijuana, even our "women can walk the streets topless" practice... I had no idea just how much has gone into all of this, and how hard people have been fighting, so quietly, for so long in order to get as much equality as possible.


So, to my Canadian friends, I beg of you: FIND THIS DOCUMENTARY. Revel in it! Hell, I've got it on my DVR, and I'll burn as many copies as anyone wants, whether you're Canadian or American or Australian or British...any nationality, anywhere... Email your address to me (below) and I'll send it to you. It is remarkable.





Email me HERE

Intro to Twitter: A batch of April's best Tweets (of mine)

Chock full of the funniest and weirdest links, lists and pics I've been able to find over the past few days! I hope it provides some amusement. Judging by my international stats, I'm doin' an okay job of it so far. I've now got followers from every continent! If you're unfamiliar with Twitter, no worries - just click the "ow.ly" link next to whichever subjects grab your interest, and it'll take you to the article I'm discussing. Have fun, and get hooked like the rest of us!

April 29th

• 00:41 What's the measurement term I'm looking for - furlong? Furlough?? Am I even close? Text my cell if you know! Settle a bet for me! #
• 02:28 RT @atomicrose: @prettyh Furlong! [Thank you, Casey! Bonus points: How MUCH is a furlong??] #
• 06:25 @aliciamcauley I am SO EXCITED about our upcoming @chuckpalahniuk experience! So...I'll be Scotland and you'll be Ireland? ow.ly/4lNQ #
• 08:40 I have vegetarian/vegan friends. We respect each other. Possibly why this ("they forced meat on meee!! RAPE!") irks me so. ow.ly/4lHt #
• 10:20 Whoo, boy. LJ never fails to deliver ~DRAMA~. This time around it's a PostSecret about rape/not rape. See for yourselves: ow.ly/4mCi #
• 19:55 My friend Lana, who works at CBC3, posted an amusing blog entry re: Music That Makes You Dumb (I'm smart; so there!): ow.ly/4sCX #
• 20:30 RT @Carlanime: Speaking of the flu, WHO have finally raised the whatsit level to thingy. ow.ly/4sFu [LOL! Well put, Carla.] #
• 20:55 Doesn't surprise me: 60% of Twitter users quit within their 1st month. They're just not as good at link-hunting as I am! ow.ly/4sP2 #

April 28th

• 16:17 Too much to dissect for Twitter. Pics of Michael Jackson's Neverland auction - am laughing and shrieking at same time: ow.ly/4hLj #
• 18:29 This is just getting disgusting. Tori Stafford's mom says she had a secret meeting with a rich benefactor offering ransom: ow.ly/4iSJ #

April 27th

• 06:22 @madam_mina Shush, you! We gave the Yankees AJ Burnett for a song, and now the poor fellow's under pressure. See: ROY HALLADAY! <3 #
• 06:24 @mattgood Are there specific Vans you're seeking? I've gotten some from a shop on Queen St/Toronto if you need details. Adidas & Chucks,too. #
• 06:25 @strombo I'm overtired, probably, but I read your Chris Walken hashtag as "douchedbyabadangel". Good band name, I think. #
• 06:27 @madam_mina My beloved Jorge Posada is not that far from 40 now! I can relate to the "OMFG I'M OLD" feeling! Our teams SUCKED today. Bah. #
• 06:55 @johncmayer Also not ugly, ever: soccer (er..."football") players. It's true. Watch the World Cup sometime. Wall to wall gorgeous. #
• 07:30 "Bewitched" movie is on TV. Lazy late nite/early a.m. viewing, y'see. But it's worse than the RottenTomatoes 25% implies. ow.ly/3Z9v #
• 08:50 @ShayneWinters You should try AudioCaptcha. It's even more challenging to get right the first try. YouTube's doing it now, too. Stupid. #
• 09:30 Everyone seems fairly convinced missing girl's mom (Tara, mom of Tori Stafford)is the culprit. Interesting Facebook group: ow.ly/3Z4J #
• 10:10 Unless you love Woody Allen, AVOID "Cassandra's Dream". HORRIBLE. Even Farrell, McGregor & Wilkinson couldn't save it! ow.ly/3Z4Q #
• 10:41 @pweifenbach So envious of you being in Vegas! Have you seen the Cirque "LOVE" show? What I'd give! Beatles fans unite!! ow.ly/3ZRK #
• 11:30 Question: Is there something other than LoudTwitter I could use to have my Tweets sent to my open Blogger? Can't find another shipper! #
• 12:43 @ShayneWinters You need answers to WHAT? You only asked one question! And yes, thx, I'll take @stephenfry on "Bones". NAY to Cassie Clare!! #
• 13:25 @aerojad !!! I think, short of proposing marriage, you joining Twitter is the grandest gesture a man has ever made for me. It's fun here! #
• 14:05 I sleep with a fan on me nearly every night, and I'd NEVER heard the urban legend that it's supposedly FATAL! WTF?? ow.ly/3Z5U #
• 14:10 "I sleep with a fan on me every night" sounds more sordid than it is. I DO, however, have a Fan Club (I'm not allowed in): ow.ly/40hZ #
• 14:31 I think I'd like to be a BNF ( ow.ly/40jo ), in my own fandom. As in, I'd be the BNF of Ehch Fandom. Is that a bit too...Mussolini? #
• 14:45 One more thing re: me having fans: Why do only 19 people love me? Is it because I don't plagiarize fic??( ow.ly/40jQ )*sob*BE MY FAN! #
• 15:15 I know every word of 'Trainspotting' film, but every fan MUST buy Director's Cut. The deleted scenes? SHOCKING. ow.ly/3Z6s #
• 15:35 @Carlanime You've gotta know that a pregnant woman in a Naughty Nurse costume is some kind of niche fetish. Lemme know how it turns out. o.O #
• 16:00 Who among you has an account at Last.FM? (Aside from those already on my list.) I wanna spy on your musical tastes! Mine: ow.ly/40hK #
• 17:05 RT @MossySloth: @prettyh HOLY CRAP I didn't know Labyrinth was based on a book!!!! [See? My Tweets are educational! ~H~] ow.ly/3MyM #
• 17:50 RT @yokoono: IMAGINE PEACE:Simplest most effective peace meditation. It's a space transformer.Transforming the world as quickly as possible #
• 20:25 I have about four years' worth of laundry to do. Think that means I have too many clothes. Diabetes Assoc.'s gettin' a BIG donation this wk. #

April 26th

• 06:08 I'm laughing way too hard at this. It trumps all of the other terrible street signs. Who knew Welsh was so difficult?? ow.ly/3U2N #
• 07:05 I've long bitched about Daddy having no cell phone. Now I think I'm grateful; he wouldn't like texts about my sex life: ow.ly/3U30 #
• 08:25 Twitter can, apparently, cost you your job, reputation, relationships... Here are 5 of the "Worst Tweets Ever": ow.ly/3U4I #
• 09:25 While not impressed with the resemblance to Heath OUT of makeup, this Joker figure ( ow.ly/3U8C ) is FREAKY in face paint!!! WOW. #
• 10:50 Punk'd by the 'net: how some companies have gotten SCREWED by social media. I still wonder about the iPod rumour. ow.ly/3U9e #

April 24th

• 03:05 @MossySloth We need to sit down (er, Skype down!) & compare sleep disorders, I think. That and myriad odd subjects, like: ow.ly/3CO6 #
• 04:11 @ShayneWinters It scares me a little that you know enough about Dancing With The Stars to ask if the gymnast has been kicked off. And NO. #
• 04:25 Utterly fascinating link courtesy of @MossySloth, containing a whole lot of conspiracy theories and other überweird stuff: ow.ly/3MpH #
• 04:41 REAL JIGSAW KILLER:"Mr Howe's head, arm, leg & torso were found [...] Only his hands have not been found. " Why the hands? ow.ly/3MwM #
• 05:04 Another ex. of nature being warped: Cats in heat sound like babies crying. I hear one outside. It's creepy and makes no biological sense. #
• 05:20 Haven't yet read it, but LOVE the title of this article:"Children Don't Make You Happy, Says Expert Who Doesn't Have Any": ow.ly/3Mvb #
• 06:10 Um..good god. "Australia's Miss Universe finalist dangerously underweight". D'you THINK?? I didn't know corpses qualified. ow.ly/3MvC #
• 07:05 Just FYI, all of my Thurs/Fri tweets have been scheduled as of Wednesday, so if I'm dead by then and you're seeing these, don't panic. #
• 08:05 I can always outdo myself with weirder lists, you know. "Top 10 Greatest Floating Heads Of All Time". (Only 10?) ow.ly/3CEw #
• 10:10 @Carlanime You are the only person I've ever heard say, "I'm glad my sex life doesn't involve a speculum." It COULD! See: ow.ly/3CFq #
• 12:30 LOL!! Re: the chick who was nearly lunch: "Logic tells us that polar bears will do this type of thing in this situation." ow.ly/3Mwn #
• 13:50 "British scientists study Happy Face Spider". What the hell?? Mother Nature is sicker than I thought; this thing is SCARY! ow.ly/3Mv1 #
• 14:35 A hilarious collection of street signs and the like. This one forbids soft coconuts on hospital premises. AS IT SHOULD! ow.ly/3Mxk #
• 14:50 This should be a rule for LIFE: No obnoxious behaviour, no crying/unhappy children, or you'll be booted from the cave! ow.ly/3Mxz #
• 16:15 @foresthouse If YOU want a Dreamwidth code, ever, let me know! My beloved @jmatwood took care of me: ow.ly/3CGW #
• 18:20 Top 10 Childrens' Books For People Who Hate Their Children (I'm noticing a theme in my tweets today...): ow.ly/3MyM #
• 20:35 Another step in the neverending downward spiral of Lindsay Lohan: she's skinnier than the Aussie pageant chick. AUGH!! ow.ly/3MCa #
• 20:36 @michaelsheen1 I totally read that wrong and thought you said you just had your makeup melting. Which does indeed sound mysterious. #
• 21:15 A fresh, funny-as-hell take on Billy Bob Thornton's stupidity whilst visiting (read: forcing himself upon) my country: ow.ly/3MD2 #

My open letter to - and final words on - Bill O'Reilly.

The petition to have the It Happened To Alexa foundation withdraw its invitation to Bill O'Reilly started out seeking 10,000 signatures. The engagement is only 6 days away, and the goal has now been lowered to 2,000. As of my last check, it hadn't even broken a thousand names.

Disheartening.

So I went to IMDb, planning to post a thread in O'Reilly's message boards with a link to said petition, and wouldn't you know it? His profile is up and running, but the message board dedicated to him is marked "Section Closed".

Next step: the man's own website. Apparently you have to pay to become a premium member if you wish to use the "Contact Bill" form. I'm not even willing to pay extra on the cable bill to get FOX News, so I'm sure as hell not going to give a dime to talk to him in cyberspace.

Final step, then: I found his email address, and I wrote the most restrained, polite message I could manage without gagging. You catch more flies with honey, after all, and I don't think my message would hold much water if I was simply being one of those screechy bitches our friend Billy seems to loathe so very much. Instead, I polished a few paragraphs and hit 'send'. Chances are it will make no difference whatsoever. Few things do when it comes to people like him. But at least I can say I did it.

---Original Message---
To: Bill O'Reilly
From: me
Subject: The "It Happened To Alexa" Hullaballoo
Date:

Mr. O'Reilly -

Surely you've received a mountain of mail about your upcoming talk at the "It Happened To Alexa" luncheon, and the petition asking for your withdrawal. I'll keep mine as short as I can.

Please don't speak at the engagement.

I realize that part of being an on-air personality is putting across what is often a more extreme and exaggerated version of yourself; perhaps the many comments you've made that lead the public to believe that you're a misogynist, among other things, is a direct result of those exaggerations. But I will say this: I was sexually assaulted a few months ago (and no, I don't expect you to care; maybe it would make a difference if you knew that I was wearing medical scrubs at the time, and was alone inside the building in which I worked, and was not in any way making a target of myself the way you said Jennifer Moore did...?), and when I tried to imagine sitting at a luncheon and listening to you speak about rape survival, I felt ill. I couldn't handle hearing a man who has been quoted more than once saying things that amount to "s/he deserved it" or "s/he brought in on him/herself" telling me that he's on my side.

I ask you, Mr. O'Reilly, to please simply consider what your television audience has seen and heard from you, and then think about what the rape survivors at this luncheon will be feeling when you take the microphone and do an about-face (and lie to them?) by saying women's rights matter to you. Please don't make any of those women feel even more belittled and guilty and humiliated than they already do. I can only assume that your reason for never apologizing for some of the more truly upsetting remarks is that you believe you are right, and that there are times and places wherein assault is justifiable. It won't matter what you say on March 19th; what you've said in the past is already out there, and you can't unring that bell.

I appeal to your obviously sizable intellect, and whatever humanity you may have behind your on-air blustering, to reconsider this speaking engagement. Your withdrawal from it would speak volumes about whether or not you actually DO care about how a woman who has been raped or otherwise assaulted should feel. There are so many topics about which you are the perfect man to speak...but the degradation and abuse of women is not one of them.

I'll never know, as we no longer get FOX News here without paying a small fortune for it, but if you did read this far, I thank you.


~Heather xxxxxx
Toronto, ON, Canada



You have the link to the petition. You can try your luck at IMDb, if you like ( http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0971123/board ). Now you have his email address, too.

Six days left. Never say never.


And that's the last I have to say about it.

The Bill O'Reilly petition. I had to post it.

I don't have a lot of faith in what petitions can do, really. Life is not just one big Erin Brockovich lovefest. But every so often I'll see something that makes me practically erupt with rage, and I feel like I'm better off just sharing the damn thing, whether it has any effect or not.

This time it's Bill O'Reilly who's made me feel homicidal. Not that he usually doesn't anyway, just by existing. But women who've been victims of sexual assault - or, hell, just PEOPLE in general - need to know about this disgusting error in judgment (that's putting it kindly) and should say something about it.

O'Reilly has been invited to speak at The It Happened To Alexa fundraiser, which, if you didn't know, is a foundation built to raise awareness about rape and to offer support and resources to victims of sexual assault. I can think of a few men who might be worse choices, but...not many.

I'm borrowing liberally from my friend Rachel's note about this in order to give background to why this bastard doesn't deserve to have an oxygen supply, let alone have the opportunity to listen to himself talk in the presence of the very people upon whom he likes to prey:

Bill O'Reilly is scheduled to speak at a fundraising luncheon for the rape survivors advocacy group It Happened To Alexa Foundation at the Ritz Carlton in Manalapan, Florida, on March 19th, 2009. This is, simply, outrageous.

According to its website, the purpose of the It Happened to Alexa Foundation is to "help support rape survivors through the trauma of the criminal trial, in the hopes that more survivors will go through with the prosecution in order to put these perpetrators behind bars...[and to] assist rape victims families with travel expenses during the litigation process."

A laudable mission, indeed. But not only has O'Reilly been accused of sexual harassment at work (settling out of court and paying his accuser a multi-million dollar sum); he also has a history of making blame-the-victim comments about sexual assault, including the following:

"These two girls come in from the suburbs and they get bombed, and their car is towed because they're moronic girls and, you know, they don't have a car. So they're standing there in the middle of the night with no car. And then they separate because they're drunk...

"Now Moore, Jennifer Moore...She was 5-foot-2, 105 pounds, wearing a miniskirt and a halter top with a bare midriff... So every predator in the world is gonna pick that up at two in the morning. She's walking by herself on the West Side Highway, and she gets picked up by a thug... And the thug takes her over to New Jersey in the cab and kills her and rapes her and does all these terrible things to her..." (Bill O'Reilly, The Radio Factor with Bill O'Reilly, 8/2/06)

"And the question is, why didn't [11-year-old Shawn Hornbeck, kidnapped, held and raped for 4 years] escape when he could have?...The Stockholm syndrome thing, I don't buy it...The situation here for this kid looks to me to be a lot more fun than what he had under his old parents. He didn't have to go to school. He could run around and do whatever he wanted...I think when it all comes down, what's going to happen is, there was an element here that this kid liked about his circumstances." (Bill O'Reilly, Fox News' The O'Reilly Factor, 1/15/07)

We can only presume that the board of the It Happened to Alexa Foundation were unaware of O'Reilly's history when they extended the invitation to him. But unfortunately, all objections to O'Reilly's appearance since then have been met with a polite rebuttal.

We consider it wholly inappropriate that Bill O'Reilly should be given the opportunity to promote his new book by associating himself with an organization that does such laudable work on behalf of rape victims.

Please join us in asking the It Happened to Alexa Foundation to withdraw their invitation to Bill O'Reilly and replace him with another, more appropriate, speaker.




Do whatever you feel is right. Sign the petition, don't sign it, watch his show, turn it off, buy his books, burn them, whatever. I've done what I feel is right, and that is to bring this to the attention of my friends and readers. People like Bill O'Reilly do not deserve to have their crimes and misdemeanours swept under the carpet; if a petition can make someone's life a little more difficult - be it his or that of the moron(s) who chose him as a speaker - then it was worth the ten seconds it took to type in my info and hit 'enter'.




**AN ASIDE:** I know I don't update this blog often; I do, however, provide daily links of all types (including the above-mentioned) via my Twitter account, so please feel free to follow me there, too.



***ETA:*** A kind commenter added this additional link for those looking for more background about why O'Reilly is such a heinous choice for this engagement: "O’Reilly Should Apologize to Rape Survivors; Gets Worst Person for Four Straight Nights". Thank you, C.


If you think others would get something out of reading this, PLEASE pass it along, via email, Facebook, Digg or any other means. As I so often say, every little bit helps.

On sexual harassment. And worse.

I don't update this thing for a month, and then I come back with this? Yes, you have permission to scowl at me for this. But it's timely. It's not my place to go into the details of why, but I'll give a very brief overview:

A friend of mine has a daughter who is...let's leave it at "middle-school age". I adore my friend, and I adore her daughter; I love how strong my friend is, how opinionated she can be without treading on others, and she's clearly passing that same inner and outer strength along to her young lady. But I don't think it's just my affection for them that has me so outraged over what happened to this girl a few days ago. It makes it worse, yeah, but I think I'd probably be sickened by any permutation of this. And I expect you will be, too, which is why I'm writing about it.

This girl - who we'll just call A. - went to school, as usual. While waiting for the bus to arrive at her usual stop at the end of the day, a few of her classmates - boys - approached her and started doing that thing that all adolescent boys do. You know, whatever the modern day equivalent to pigtails in the inkwell would be. Teasing, kidding around, kinda being jerks, but...whatever. It's all part of the experience of entering teenage-dom, right?

Right. Until the tone of it all changed and turned into something that no adult woman should have to tolerate, much less a girl, no matter how strong and smart she is. A girl just waiting at a bus stop, like any other day, in broad daylight, with other kids around. Lascivious remarks, graphic objectification, all culminating in actual physical contact that, while she wasn't harmed in a bodily sense, was way over the line of what any boy (or girl) should ever be allowed to do to a classmate.

Because I haven't yet gotten permission, as it were, to write this about A., I'm trying to refrain from going into too many details, which I know will make it hard to convey the horror of it...but I can draw a parallel for you between A.'s experience and something that happened to me when I was a few years older than her.

When I was about 16, I had a boyfriend. He and I got together when I was 15 and he was 17, and we were together into university. In our high school, there was nobody who didn't know we were a couple, and I think that probably insulated me from a lot of things that other guys might have chosen to visit upon me. But there was one guy friend who, out of nowhere, opened my eyes to the unpleasantness that can mark male-female relationships. He was a friend of my boyfriend, too, so it never struck any of us as weird that I would occasionally talk to him on the phone at night, after school, before bed, about class projects or pieces of music we were studying or our respective relationships.

But one night was different. One night, in the midst of him trying to explain how to get an A+ on my paper about A Tale Of Two Cities, he just changed the subject completely and started asking totally inappropriate questions about my physical relationship with my boyfriend. I deflected for as long as I could, and then he switched tactics. He asked me if I "ever got [my]self off". I think I laughed, either out of surprise or because I thought he had to be kidding. This wasn't something we'd ever so much as hinted at discussing before, and it sure as hell wasn't something I was up for talking about - with him or with anyone!

So I said the first thing that came to mind. I snorted indignantly and said, "Why? Do YOU?"

To which he responded, "What do you think I've being doing ever since we got on the phone?"



I think I'll take a moment to let the feeling of revulsion I still feel, sixteen years later, pass.


I hung up. We never talked on the phone again, and whenever I had to see him, at school or at parties or at music functions, I would dodge him as best I could. On a couple of occasions I had to come right out and tell him that I was ending my association with him. There was even an incident, later, where a group of us were walking back toward our high school on a lunch break, and he took it upon himself to smack me in the back of the head several times for no apparent reason (bear in mind that he was 18 by now); that resulted in my boyfriend grabbing him by the throat and holding him up against the chalkboard in our music room, threatening to kill him if he ever came near me again. The freezing-out process eventually led to him engaging in some really distressing stalker-type behaviour, including one night when he drove to my house in the worst imaginable blizzard to deliver my Christmas gift, and even as I hid in the living room, out of sight, with my boyfriend (who by now wanted to kill the guy), and let my father try to convince the scary bastard that I wasn't home, he wouldn't let up. He just wanted to come in for a minute; he just wanted to leave the box on the kitchen counter; he just wanted to leave a note; he just, he just, he just... My father finally made him go, back out into that hellish weather at 10 p.m. on a weeknight, and if I remember correctly, I turned to my boyfriend and started to cry, asking him, "What did I do to make him think this was okay?"

People who know me know that I'm no shrinking violet. If there's a "type" who would normally blame themselves for not reacting strongly enough to something, or for "letting" someone do or say things to them without punishing them immediately and painfully, I have never been that type. But that was probably the first glimpse I got into the other side, the dark side, where a girl realizes that she's not necessarily as prepared or equipped or defensive enough to deal with the things an arrogant, entitled, sick bastard will visit upon her when he gets the chance.

Many of you know that I have, unfortunately, come up against worse incidents since that high school situation. And in me turning to my family and friends for support and advice, I learned just how many of you, too, have stories that vary in detail but that all end in the same feeling of anger and helplessness and fear. We're all women who thought we should have reacted differently, that we ought to have visited bodily harm on the swine who thought they could take whatever they wanted from us, and we've all had moments when we beat ourselves up for not doing what we should have done. We all know that's just not right - that turning these things into our own fault is salt in our own wounds, and is simply wrong - but we do it anyway. We spend days, weeks or years asking why we didn't break the guy's nose or take him to court or even avoid whatever situation we found ourselves in, and it's a waste of energy. It's not our fault that there are people out there who'll wait for you to be vulnerable, even for a second,and then move in for the kill...whatever form it takes.

Of course, I can say this, but as some of you - those closest to the ordeal I suffered in April - well know, I've done exactly the same thing. I've run the gamut of self-blame and am still caught in the "it could have been worse; it could have been rape" cycle of thought. I know I shouldn't do that to myself, but it creeps in sometimes, all the same.

Back to A., then. She's younger now than I was then, and what she dealt with a few days ago was, in many ways, creepier than my Phone Call From Hell. She had to hear things like that from boys who were right there, physically, in front of her. And brava to her, because she did everything right, and with any luck those boys won't be bothering anyone again anytime soon. But my reason for writing this is simply to express my disgust and horror at what little girls are apparently having to deal with from their peers. Hell, I was freaked out by my situation at the age of 16, when I had a built-in protection system in the form of a football-player boyfriend; I simply cannot imagine how I'd have felt, going back to school the next day, had I been a few years younger or less insulated. How I'd have dealt with it had it been more than one creep, and was instead a group of friends who thought it was okay to say vile things to me and lay their hands on me. I'm so proud of A. for having her head on so straight; she's dealt with this beautifully, and I applaud her and her parents for just taking care of business and getting on with it. Here I am, days later, still furious and horrified on her behalf. Less than half my age, and the girl has more poise than I do.

So what stands to be gained from typing all of this? I don't know. Awareness, maybe, that these incidents are happening earlier and earlier in young people's lives. Commiseration, perhaps, among those of us who've had to deal with someone harassing or assaulting us, treating us like their own personal playground while we freeze up inside and are left with scars that probably never fully fade. Another friend of mine was brave enough to share her experiences with sexual assault in her blog some time ago, and I remember turning to her for advice and comfort when I had my demoralizing experience - first with the assailant, then with the police - this past spring. I guess my writing this is my way of saying that I hope I can do for someone else what that friend, and others, did for me in the sleepless nights that followed my assault.

And in all of this there is a young lady who's now been introduced to one of the most unsavoury parts of human nature, at such an early age, and she's dealing with it. It bothers me that we can't protect anyone from this sort of thing, because it's so...ubiquitous. Kids can't even just be kids anymore. They instead get smacked in the face - or the backside, if you will - with things nobody should have to confront, least of all a fledgling teenager who should still believe in respect and harmless crushes and pigtails in the inkwell.

It's heartbreaking.

Amnesty International - "Small Places" that you should see.

I know there are a million causes out there, and I know that charity fatigue is a very real problem, but I ask that you take a moment to look at something that my friends in Wide Mouth Mason (one of the best Canadian bands our beloved country has seen) hold dear to them. We've heard a lot since yesterday about the great things that Paul Newman did for the world in which we live; now we can focus on what we can do.

Amnesty International's "Small Places" is all about Human Rights, and what everyone - from musicians to us regular folk - can do to improve the conditions for those whose most basic rights are ignored every day.

Borrowing from WideMouthMason.Com (because they and their Chef de Mission always say it better than I ever could), here's the answer to the question: What IS "Small Places"??

---

What "Small Places" is:

• It's a three-month campaign by Amnesty International that is inspired by a statement by Universal Declaration co-author Eleanor Roosevelt that "Human rights begin in small places close to home".
  
  
• It's about artists and other creative folk around the world bringing human rights 'close to home' wherever they happen to be.
  
  
• It's a cross-Canada and 'round the world arts jam with a call to action that celebrates the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
  
  
• It's a global effort that Wide Mouth Mason wholeheartedly supports and invites all those amongst its Masonite masses around the world to check out and consider making this campaign part of their Small Places in the world.
  
  With members of Wide Mouth Mason being long-time supports of Amnesty International, Wide Mouth Mason is glad to announce its support of this initiative that has been organised to run right to Human Rights Day on December 10th. Like Amnesty International's Small Places campaign, Wide Mouth Mason wants "to increase global support for human rights in these dangerous times"... and knows Masonites around this wonderful world of ours are a great Mass of Damn Cool people who might be interested in getting involved.
  
  Each Small Places artist champions a community or individual whose human rights are under attack, by calling on fans and friends to speak out and send appeals to governments, in the coming months.
  
  Amnesty International is a worldwide movement of almost two million people who work together to protect individuals and communities around the world whose human rights are under attack. Amnesty International appeals for the violations to stop and mobilize public pressure to prevent human rights abuses. Amnesty International takes action to stop grave abuses of human rights, freedom of conscience and expression, and freedom from discrimination.
  

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  I know most of you reading this have access to my private blog, and are more likely to comment there, but for those of you who are seeing this only here, I ask you to check out SmallPlaces.Ca and comment here to let me know what you think. Or to ask for more info. Anything at all. It's a cause worth reading about.
  
  I promise I'll return (hopefully before I leave for the UK!) for another of my more lighthearted, entertaining entries! But for now, this seemed like an important message to get out there. I hope I've helped in some small way; even if you tell me that you'd never heard about this before I posted it, I'll know that the word is spreading, and that we can effect change.
  

Julian Lennon's latest project(s)...

Over at Julian's MySpace, we are all abuzz about his upcoming album (check out the songs he's posted; they're brilliant)...but there's more! "WHALEDREAMERS" is a film project in which Julian is very involved (and about which he is understandably quite passionate), and the trailer is finally up on the Apple website!



The description:

whaledreamers - the title alone evokes hypnotic visions of these most magnificent and ancient creatures. This visually stunning film offers an incredible glimpse into a rarely seen and scarcely understood tribal culture whose entire story of creation revolves around whales and has endured for centuries. The film passionately explores the connection between the subtle elegance of these “mothers of the sea” and ancient civilizations around the world whose culture and very existence is based on whales. Intertwining incredible underwater footage with ancient legend, whaledreamers examines the complex past and the possibly dire future of human civilization. Told with moving optimism and spiritual strength, it is a clarion call encouraging humanity’s reconnection to the profound beauty of the natural world and is an appeal to embrace all living beings thereby creating the unity and peace which the Earth itself can bring.

If you have a passion for saving the earth and celebrating nature as it was meant to be, you MUST check out your local listings on September 26th to see if the film is playing near you. (I promised the good Mr. Lennon in his blog that I'd help get the word 'round as much as I could, so there you have it! GO SEE WHALEDREAMERS!!!)

I'm gonna walk the Terry Fox Run.

So...yeah. I left it awfully late - BAD ME - but I wanted to let everyone know that I have officially signed up to walk the Terry Fox Run on September 14th! (It's only the second charity walk I've attempted, and my ankles hated me after the first one, but I made a promise to myself and I plan to keep it.)

For those unfamiliar with the Run, you may want to check out the Terry Fox website. It takes place every September and raises a lot of money for cancer research, and since I've lost some important people to the disease in my life, I figure it's high time to do more than just donate money. This year, I'M WALKING.

If anyone's interested in donating/pledging for my non-Run Walk (?!), you can do so online:

Support Ehch in the Terry Fox Run!

And yes, I promise there will be photos afterward, to prove that I actually did it. Any support will be gratefully received - even a dollar can go a long way!

Thank you in advance, and WISH ME LUCK. I'm gettin' the ice packs ready for my ankles already. Hee.

Terry Fox, the hero.

I'm a few hours late, but let's pretend it's still July 28th. Terry Fox's birthday. I'm up at my usual hours, watching a documentary put together by his family, and it's dawned on me that this is the first time in my life that I've allowed myself to know too much about the man who many consider the most famous Canadian to have ever lived...and certainly among the most noble and extraordinary. I think the subject has always just saddened me so much that I didn't let myself explore who he really was, and what he's really done. I was only about five years old when he died, and yet - just like the day John Lennon was shot - I have a remarkably clear set of memories surrounding the tragic news.

I'm not going to go into pages and pages of everything Terry accomplished. There've been hundreds of people before me who've said it better. But I feel like I should pay homage to him in some small way, because we - my family - have lost people to cancer, people who meant the world to us (and, oh, how egregiously that phrase is overused; one only really grasps its meaning when one has truly lost what we have. Many of you, sadly, know that to be all too true, having lost someone who mattered that much to you, too...). And Terry Fox, just some kid from Winnipeg, stands for the hope that, someday, others won't be lost the way people like Rose Marie O'Leary Stewart and Michael McCluskey were lost. In fact, there's little doubt in anyone's mind that what Terry did has already made a remarkably significant impact on cancer treatment and education...all because he decided to go for a run. And all he asked was for each Canadian to donate one dollar to the cause. I'm so proud, when I think of the movement he started, to be Canadian. Proud that his name is associated with my country.

I guess I'm just writing this because there's this fear that I have that people outside of Canada don't know who he is. Is that the case, I wonder? I'll have to ask my international friends if they've heard of him, and of what he did. In the meantime, though, a primer:

Terry Fox was an athletic young man with a lot of plans for himself, all of which got derailed at the age of 19, when he was found to have osteosarcoma. Despite a lower leg amputation to rid him of the original tumour, the cancer had already begun to metastasize, and yet still he decided he would run across our enormous country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, on a prosthetic leg and in failing health. He began his run in April 1980 in St. John's, Newfoundland, and while the tumours in his lungs forced him to stop in September of that same year, he'd still managed to run an astonishing 5,373km (3,339 miles) in 143 days. He'd made his way through Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, Québec, and came to a stop here in Ontario.

(An aside: It still sickens me to know how Québec treated him. He was forced off the main roads - allegedly because "nobody spoke English and didn't understand his message" - and left to run on a barren, unpopulated path alongside the St. Lawrence River. Because of that, despite the 100+ kilometres he ran through that province, he raised only THIRTY-FIVE DOLLARS from "La Belle Province". The only thing that makes me able to swallow the horror and disgust I feel about that is the knowledge that, when he stopped at Toronto's City Hall many weeks later, he was handed $100,000 for his charity.)

In the end, even after he had to stop the Marathon Of Hope in September 1980, he continued to lobby for donations. CTV held a telethon while Terry was hospitalized to receive chemotherapy, and the most amazing thing happened: the total donations that had poured in from his run and from the telethon reached over $24 million...which meant that his dream of having $1 from each Canadian had been realized.

And though he died in June 1981 from pneumonia, he'd lived long enough to see that, while the marathon had stopped, the message had not. His efforts alone had doubled the projected annual budget of the Canadian Cancer Society, and for that he was presented with the highest honour our country can bestow: the Order Of Canada.

I have friends who still run the Marathon of Hope each year (now simply called "The Terry Fox Run"; it takes place all over Canada each September), and while I've never done it myself, I think I should. I was born with deformed legs that cause me pain every day, but my god... What is that, really, in the face of what Terry Fox did? I'm ashamed that I've never done it. It's high time I did. I can't run, but I can walk, and the physical price I'll pay in the days following are nothing compared to what one 22-year-old boy did for millions of people.

I should end this on a lighter note. (I'm sure you're wondering how that's possible, but if anyone could add levity to a story, it was my Grandma, who herself would be a casualty of cancer only 6 years after Terry Fox lost his battle.) I'm sure I won't get it quite right, since I was so little when it happened, and I've not heard the second-hand version for a while, but I laugh every time I hear it:

On the day that Terry Fox made it into Toronto, his arrival caused people to gather in droves alongside his route, and his police escort always brought traffic to a halt whenever he would reach a highly populated city or town. My Grandma didn't drive, but she took a taxi to and from work, and on this particular day I suppose she'd gotten up too early to catch the news that Terry would be coming through our city that afternoon. When she got home from work, much later than usual, she and her Irish temper were on fire; she railed at my Mom and my uncles about how there was "some stupid bastard jamming up traffic and running down the middle of the bloody road!"

You can imagine the completely inappropriate laughter that would have come from her audience, and the horrified, sheepish expression on my grandmother's face when she was told who it was, and why her taxi ride had been so torturously long. And needless to say, my family has since been very supportive of the Cancer Society, all of us readily donating every year, our house always brightened by those annual yellow daffodils, and my Mom volunteered actively for our local chapter; my cousin Kristin also runs for charity and is a personal hero of mine for that.

And Terry Fox? Well, if he wasn't a hero of yours before reading this, I hope he is now. Maybe this year you'll want to join the Terry Fox Run, too. Or perhaps support me when I do it.

I can only imagine how proud that boy from Winnipeg would be if he could see what he started.