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 = 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.

For those who've written to me about Martin Streek...

I realize it's been a while since my last post, about Martin. I've received a significant amount of email in response, asking me questions that I either cannot or will not answer (which isn't meant to sound as harsh as it does; I simply don't feel as though I'm someone who ought to comment on certain things, nor do I feel that some subjects warrant discussion). I do realize that the reason I'm still getting these notes - mainly from strangers who were fans of Mr. Streek - is that, even seven weeks after we and the rest of the world lost a good man, a lot of people are still in shock, or are trying to understand, or are simply still mourning, as many of us will do for the rest of our lives.

It's been surprising to me just how many people who never had the good fortune of meeting Martin, but who felt connected to him over the airwaves nonetheless, have sent messages my way. I hope so very much that Martin knew how far and wide his influence reached. This post is for them, the people who have said time and again on various message boards and memorial groups (like that on Facebook) that they are shocked at how big a void they feel, having lost someone they'd never even seen face to face.

Instead of relying on my own words this time, then, I thought it would be best to make available to all who've asked (and even those who haven't) a small selection of other people's touching tributes to Martin. Because he meant something different to everyone whose lives he touched, it is only right that his fans - who may not have caught some of the blog posts and such in the confusing and heart-wrenching days that followed Martin's passing - should have access to the missives posted by a few of his old friends. In so many ways, they each said it better than I ever could.

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 the following:

• "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 in my original post about Martin, the on-air tribute by Dave Marsden is an absolute must-hear as well. And if, after all of that, you still feel the need to read an "official" news report, the only one I'd suggest is posted on the website of the Toronto Star, written by Ben Rayner.


[ photo from the tribute held for Martin at the Phoenix, July 2009 ]

If there are any blog entries, articles, tributes or other such material out there that you feel ought to be included in this list (since my blog apparently comes up at some point during Google searches of Martin's name, thus leading a number of his fans to contact me with questions that I cannot answer), or if there's something you've seen that you think I might like to read, please feel free to comment here, or to reach me via email. I'd be glad to add to the list of posts that will induce a smile while reading, whether the reader is a fan, a friend, or his family. The tears haven't stopped, but I don't think I'm alone in saying that we're a little more ready now to laugh at the great memories with which we've been left.



[ photo from the tribute held for Martin at the Phoenix, July 2009 ]


Thank you, to everyone, for the kind words and wishes. And I hope the links I've provided in this post will answer whatever questions for you that I cannot.

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. ]

Musings on Dunbar's Number: When do we "max out" on friends?

On Friday, June 13th, 2008, a 20-year-long friendship came to a sudden, though not unexpected, end. I'd thought it was one that would last a lifetime; people don't generally see each other through so many of life's obstacles, victories and rites of passage only to toss aside one's partner in crime. Precisely how something that had seemed so fireproof went up in smoke within only a matter of months is a mystery that will confound me for years to come, if I let it. It is, perhaps, energy best spent elsewhere - I'll get to that - but the fact remains that I learned a solid and valuable lesson from the experience: There is no such thing as a sure thing. Oh, and as a TV show once told me (I listen to what the television says, you know), "Trust no-one." Damn straight.

I preface my ponderings about Dunbar's Number with that bit of background mainly to exemplify one of its biggest points: Damage to our innermost social "ring" can knock you off your axis for an incalcuable amount of time, and you might surprise yourself with what measures you'll take to try to rebalance yourself. All of our "social networking" and society's sudden, strange fixation with "collecting" friends as Readers or Followers might be a direct result of us trying to fill a void - one that should be reserved for only a very few VIPs - by stuffing as many acquaintances into it as technology will allow.

"But what the hell is Dunbar's Number?" you're thinking. You don't really wanna read on if I'm going to babble and analogize and never explain the theory. I don't blame you. So here's the quick and dirty Wikipedia definition, for a start:



Dunbar's number is a theoretical cognitive limit to the number of people with whom one can maintain stable social relationships. These are relationships in which an individual knows who each person is, and how each person relates to every other person. Proponents assert that numbers larger than this generally require more restricted rules, laws, and enforced norms to maintain a stable, cohesive group. No precise value has been proposed for Dunbar's number, but a commonly cited approximation is 150.

Dunbar's number was first proposed by British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, who theorized that "this limit is a direct function of relative neocortex size, and that this in turn limits group size ... the limit imposed by neocortical processing capacity is simply on the number of individuals with whom a stable inter-personal relationship can be maintained." On the periphery, the number also includes past colleagues such as high school friends with whom a person would want to reacquaint themselves if they met again.



That is only one facet of the theory, of course, but at its basest, it shows us that we all have a limit on how many balls we can juggle, and how valuable our nearest and dearest are in the grand scheme of things.

If you're like my mother, your immediate reaction is to say, "Uh, no. My social circle doesn't come close to a hundred and fifty people." But when I started to elaborate - "Think of your Christmas card list, and all of the people who are offshoots of those people!" - my Mom had to admit that it sounded more plausible with an expanded definition. I used the analogy of our own personal universes having orbits around them, or Bohr's rings, each populated by different "levels" of people in our lives. The innermost ring, for most, would include a significant other, or one's children, siblings, or best and oldest friend. The next ring would feature other close relatives and friends who are central to one's life. The next might have longtime colleagues or in-laws. And so on. It's a highly personal thing, the organization of one's particular universe, but you get the idea. Once you start to extend it to include the other people who exist in your sphere, in whatever capacity - those you know through work, old friends you only see once a year, people you've met through your boyfriend/best friend/boss - it's not hard to imagine 150 as being a reasonable middle-ground kind of number.

I'd never heard of this theory before a few days ago - odd timing, really, since I hadn't realized that it was the anniversary of the annihilation of that aforementioned friendship upon which I stumbled across Dunbar. Of all days to be learning about the delicate balance of our social circles and the damage that can be done if an inner ring is somehow disturbed, I had a one in 365 shot that it would be that day. I hadn't even recognized it as being a day of any significance until I was reminded by someone about where I'd been a year ago that night, and things all fell into place from there. And yes, the theory is correct about just how whacked out your social connections can get when a fundamental party is obliterated by circumstance (death, divorce, drama). I'd experienced it before I knew that it had a name.

The theory goes on to explain that we, as social creatures, are in a constant state of flux - the outermost rings of people coming and going, changing in their composition or their degree of importance to us - but that it is more important than most of us realize to keep some semblance of sameness to, if nothing else, the sheer number of people we're trying to juggle. With the onslaught of new social networking media, like Twitter and Facebook, we're bombarded by (or is it "with"?) the minutiae of more and more of our most distant contacts every single day...and it's screwing with our heads. Those of us who used to have close-knit circles of only our dearest friends and family, numbering nowhere near that magic Dunbar figure, are now in constant contact with people who would otherwise be relegated to "work friends" or "old schoolmates" or people we had simply shed as part of the process of growing and moving on. That's not to say the internet hasn't been an amazing tool, helping us to reconnect with countless people with whom we'd lost touch and being able to pick up where we left off; I don't know anyone who doesn't have at least one happy "you'll never guess who found me on Facebook!" story. But there's a flipside to that element of our lives: The energy we each expend nowadays, trying to maintain all of these new or revived relationships, can be exorbitant, and I know of a startlingly high number of people who suffer from what I call Facebook Guilt. It's that feeling you get when you see how many messages have been sitting, unread, in your inbox for days, and the endless little comments or virtual gifts left for us each day - kind and thoughtful though they almost always are - that makes turning on your computer start to seem scary as hell. It's the cyber-version of drowning in paperwork. Throw Twitter into the mix, add in your 24/7 availability via text message on your cell phone, and the capability to IM anyone from anywhere...and I'm betting your number has soared well beyond 150 and into the realm of "holy HELL how do I make the BEEPING stop?!?"

It's not just me. Honest.

So Dunbar has applied the whole "apes grooming each other" thing to us humanfolk, and has postulated that we're in danger of being driven crazy by too many people in our sphere or having parts of our lives and personalities neglected if we have too few. A line from "Trainspotting" has come to mind frequently as I've pondered my own circle of friends: "It's a tightrope, Spud. A fucking tightrope." Truer words have ne'er been spoken. As our Contact Lists grow longer, our time spent cultivating the face-to-face variety of friendship grows inevitably shorter, and eventually we'll all find ourselves either loaded down with 400 expectant people or a scant few who can be bothered with us since we blew them off to catch up on our unanswered email or ignored them as we texted furiously under the table at dinner.

I didn't have to think for long before I could say with absolute certainty that the number of people in my life who deserve to be slapped with the Truly Important To Me label is laughably higher than 150. I say that not to boast nor to complain, but rather to marvel. I didn't do an actual headcount, but I didn't need to. A quick scan of the people who can read my locked blog + the number of contacts on MSN + the list of cell numbers stored in my phone + the friends and family on Facebook = a metric crapload. (I mean that in a good way.) The majority of those people are ones I've known either long or well (or both) and would never want to "lose" in a Dunbar shuffle. I think that puts me in the realm of Critical Mass. And one might make a good argument that spending so much time tending to so many, and wanting to keep up on the details of that many lives, has (and still could) cost me some of the relationships I've had since before I became @prettyh. Would I change it? Nope. Do I recognize the insanity of somehow really knowing such a high volume of people, and the effort it requires to be an active participant in their lives? YES. And since most of them (you might be one of Them, if you're reading this) are in the same boat, I think it's safe to say that they realize it, too. Thank goodness for that; I'm lucky to have a mightily forgiving lot of inhabitants in my life, all of whom know that the expected turnaround date for an email response or a phone call or a ReTweet or a night at the movies has grown exponentially longer because our social circles have exploded.


(Anyone who knows me at all just laughed aloud at the idea of me voluntarily making a phone call. It was just an example.)


It wasn't my ever-expanding clan that rendered my decades-old friendship extinct; the death of that relationship was inevitable, with or without 'net access. But I've seen it happen to other people, trading precious RL moments for a chance to bask in the adulation scrolling across their computer screen. I suppose the whole point of this blather is to say that we've lost sight of our Number and why it should matter to us. We expect ridiculous things of ourselves as we try to mete out the appropriate amount of time and attention to each and every member of our worlds and, without proper perspective, we're constantly in danger of denting our Inner Rings by letting the weight of the Outer ones crush toward the centre. Which is us. We are at the middle of our own universe by its very design; people are in our orbit. And we are in theirs. And we're no good to anyone if we're spread too thin, spending countless hours ignoring the relationships in front of us in favour of sending mass forwards to our 6,342 "closest friends." A tightrope, indeed.



Does it shoot all of my credibility to hell if I confess that I Twittered about this very subject only days ago? Ahem.



Take a good, hard look at your Number. Count your rings. Ask yourself if they're prioritized correctly. If the answer is no, it's time to back away from the mesmerizing pull of seeing lives in 140 characters. If the answer is yes...well, then, you're probably a lot further ahead of the rest of your pack. And Dunbar would be proud of you.

NIN/JA, fickle fans, expletives and videos: My farewell to one of my favourite bands.

I was in the process of trying to find the exact set list for the NIN/JA show that took place on June 5th in New Jersey...and I'm coming across an awful lot of...well, frankly, bullshit.

Read the comments to this Rolling Stone article as a primer. Hell, just read the article itself. What the...?

I found out from a friend maybe three days ahead of time that NIN would be performing before Jane's Addiction. (If I'd had half a brain I'd have seen the huge notice on the NIN website.) I said, "Wha...?" and then got over it. Because despite not even owning any of JA's albums, I loved the '90s alt scene, and I don't care in what order they play; seeing NIN and JA share a stage is like a rock-gasm for people who were heavy into the club circuit throughout the last decade. Having Tom Morello tossed in for good measure was simply a cherry on top of it all.

I consider myself a pretty good critic as far as concerts go. Lord knows I've seen enough of them to be called, if not an expert, at least thoroughly informed on the subject. I've seen NIN five times (or is it 6...? Yes, it's six! HOLY CRAP), so I have a basis for comparison. And I would say that the NIN/JA show was easily the second best I have ever experienced. (The absolute best was on the summer leg of the With Teeth tour in '06 - it cannot be beat. Not only did Bauhaus open for them, but the electricity in the crowd, the gorgeous summer night by the lake - same venue as the one they played the other night - and the amazing set list and brand new light show were just unbeatable.)

Having said that, one could argue that it's because I've gotten to see them so many times that I can feel as fulfilled and as happy with whatever Trent wants to throw at us as I am. I do wonder how I'd have felt if the NIN/JA experience had been my first (and, as it appears more and more each day, the LAST). But on the other hand, I know NIN's catalogue backwards and front, sideways and then some, and I didn't learn it from seeing them live; I already owned it all going in. I'd be hard pressed to come up with a set list that would disappoint me, because I love stuff from every Halo that has been put out.

Trent made it very public that there would be no flashy light show this time, and that they wouldn't be playing Closer and all of the other mainstream pseudo-fan favourites. They just played those in November! (And, okay, AGAIN, I will grant that Toronto is insanely lucky because we've almost always gotten to see NIN both at the start and at the end of a tour, so we get two different shows with different set lists etc., while other cities get passed over completely. I saw one Fragile show, two on the With Teeth tour, two for Year Zero, and then the NIN/JA set. All in my own city. That's lucky. I do get that.) The point is that Trent made it abundantly clear that this was the Wave Goodbye tour, and it was for the die-hards, not the poseurs. Silly little blonde sluts who like to bump and grind to Closer at their local sleazy dance club were not the target audience.




(My clip, which sadly did not go far enough to let everyone hear me screaming, "IT WON'T GIVE UP IT WANTS ME DEAD GODDAMN THIS NOISE INSIDE MY HEAD"...because I wanted to dance, not film. Sorry 'bout that. I do know there's complete video of it elsewhere on YouTube, though!)



So instead of the same old regurgitated set list for the umpteenth time, Trent opted to give the fans something else. Something about which, at least at the Toronto show, people in the audience were SO pumped. Nearly every song they played, you would hear thousands of people exclaiming things like, "Holy shit!! I never thought I'd hear this live!!" I was one of those people. I had to apologize to Ian, my intrepid partner in concert-crime, who is a relative NIN novice, because I'd sent him a bunch of MP3s to prep him for what he was likely to hear...and I think only ONE out of the 30+ tracks I'd given him ended up being played. But he was pretty amused to see me jumping up and down - literally - because we were getting to hear Heresy instead of Closer, and I'm Afraid Of Americans instead of Only. (You really must check out this awesome footage of IAOA from our show.) And despite only even recognizing two of the songs at all, and never getting to see the mind-blowing light shows that had marked the previous Lights In The Sky tours, and being younger than me (just shy of 24) and therefore never being exposed to NIN as part of his nightlife, he enjoyed it. I don't think you could help but enjoy it; there was just an energy in the crowd that was infectious, and everyone was simply there to have a great time. And I think everyone did - certainly everyone around ME, and the reports from other friends at the show were the same. [ ETA: Browsing the NIN.Com boards, I see that the West Palm Beach thread is mostly negativity, whereas nearly everything said about our Toronto show was over-the-top positive. In the WPB thread, there is - seriously!! - a guy who says they were "entitled" to an encore. A contradiction in terms, to be sure, Einstein. ] It was a nice way to say goodbye to the longtime fans, and clearly it was enjoyable for some of the newcomers as well.


I'll have to ask my friend EmCee to weigh in on this, too, because we were at the same show and she was in the section ahead of me, so she might be able to lend more insight into the vibe. But from everything I witnessed, people were having a blast, even while the sun was still up! (NIN in daylight is, truly, a weird experience.)

[ETA: EmCee's response to all of this: Yeah, I was at that show and people were totally into it from my POV.

Hell, I know I loved it. I've never gotten to see NIN before and I am absolutely in no way disappointed with this being what is most likely the only one I'll ever see. IMHO, it was tight.

Those tickets are pretty. Shame mine says [my brother's name instead of mine]. Oh well. Still look all shiny. Nicest looking ticket I've got on my board.

Anyone who bitches and moans and acts all entitled can go DIAF.

Well said, my friend. ]



Back to the über-bitching that's spreading across the 'net, then.

(It's really not so bad, you know, once you get past the taste...)


what a fuckn letdown man. if theyre really gone now an that was what we were left with than FUCKYOU NIN.



I'm reading comments like these, and just shaking my head. Everyone's entitled to their (grammatically flawed) opinion, and of course there will be shows that are better than others, but come ON.

Went to the Austin show and it was awful. NIN was lackluster and sounded weak. Audience was not into the music. Trent recently tweeted about it: “Not one of our better shows. Despite our efforts we seemed unable to win over the crowd. Texas ends with a whisper.” about 4 hours ago from Tweetie -
Trent should buckle down and focus on the tour and not his cheapo girlfriend.

And then this:

There were a lot of very pissed off people at the West Palm show… NIN opened for Jane’s, but nobody knew that was going to happen. I guess my fault for showing up a little late, got there around 7:45 and NIN was already on stage. Then they didn’t even come out for an encore. The stage looked like they were going to come back out for a bit and then all of a sudden the lights came on and they started setting up the stage for Jane’s. Heard a lot of booing… Lots of pissed off people…



Sigh.


Now, see, here's the thing. A lot has to happen to make a concert orgasmic. There has to be a certain synergy between band and audience. Sometimes it happens organically; sometimes it has to be pushed a bit before things start rolling; sometimes there's a misfire and the connection just doesn't take. Keeping NIN as the sole example (just because it could get messy if I start comparing good vs bad shows when I'm talking about totally different bands/crowds/expectations etc.), I can say that I was underwhelmed at the winter show of the With Teeth tour. Part of it was probably because the one I'd seen in July, only a few months previous, was The Best Show Ever. But there were other elements, too - the electricity wasn't the same. The set list wasn't as good. Hell, our seats were crap. But not in a million years would I go and post something like those comments above just because things weren't firing on all cylinders.



I like this response, given by another Rolling Stone reader:

Hey Austin...How can you be mad at the band. They feed off the energy of the crowd. You got no feeling….you fail.



This is SO TRUE. Sometimes there'll be a crowd who come in with this indignant attitude right off the bat, thinking about what they paid for their ticket and having a specific set list in mind, and it's as though they've set themselves up to be disappointed. I've been to other shows like that, with other bands; you can feel it before the show even starts. Instead of there being a buzz in the crowd as everyone comes together in anticipation of what they're gonna see when the curtain comes up and the lights go down, there's an expectation. As though the band is a bunch of trained circus dogs who are expected to perform a certain set of tricks, and one false move totally kills the moment. The band is up there, working their asses off, and the crowd is barely moving. Because OH NOES THEY DIDN'T PLAY MY FAVOURITE SONG!!



To which I say, "If you want to hear your favourite songs in the 'right' order in the 'right' way, STAY THE FUCK HOME and LISTEN TO YOUR iPOD."



For the record, NIN has only ever played my "must-hear" songs once each. I wait with bated breath every single show, hoping to hear the first notes of Ringfinger and The Wretched. Only once, ever, did that happen. And y'know what? THE SHOWS WERE STILL AWESOME.

And god forbid if the band acknowledges a night when the crowd wasn't feelin' it. Because then you incite remarks like this:

Did you see Trent Reznor whining about the Austin show on Twitter? Really, is he surprised? IT SUCKED! HE SOUNDED LIKE SHIT. He needs to grow up and stop being a ass. He’s “sad” that the crowd wasn’t into it, well if he had put together a tighter show, we would have been into it.




Now, okay, I wasn't at the Austin show. I can say nothing with any authority about how good or bad it was. And I've seen Trent whine (OY OY OY), and I've rolled my eyes at it too. But the remark he made about that one concert wasn't whiny. And when fans take something like that and twist it around, why on earth do they expect their supposed favourite band to work nearly as hard next time?? If they can do no right, why bother?



I'm trying to find a comment that was made about how Trent "didn't interact at all with the audience" and that was a bad thing. I'll post it here if I can find it. But y'know what? TRENT DOESN'T TALK TO THE AUDIENCE. With the exception of ONE of the six shows I've seen - during which he actually dragged a stool to the front of the stage and sat on it to explain why he likes bringing NIN to Toronto more often than anywhere else, and what makes these shows stand out to him (it was quite a surprise to the whole crowd; fifteen thousand people fell instantly silent to hear what he had to say, and it was really very touching and kind of surreal) - he has always kept it to "thank you" and "good night" and that is IT. What the hell kind of NIN fan are you if you're expecting him to, like, get everyone singing Head Like A Hole in the round???



(The idea of that just made me LOL.)



Maybe it's just that the stereotypical NIN fan is all angsty and only happy when they're pissed off, or something. Get a load of this:

There was a BIG problem for those of us that bought nin.com Atlanta pre-sale tickets. This was COMPLETELY screwed up, they didn’t have the tickets ready at all! There were literally hundreds of people waiting in line to get their tickets. Once you got to the window (which took over an hour), you had to give them your name, and then someone had to run out and find them somewhere and bring them to the window. It was a total fiasco. I got there just before 7pm, and we didn’t get our tickets until almost 8:15pm. We missed Streetsweeper and half of the NIN set. And we were actually lucky because we were at the front of the line. I feel bad for all those behind us that were waiting. I WILL NEVER GO TO ANOTHER NIN CONCERT. That’s what you get for being greedy old man Reznor.



...uh.

This is NIN's fault how, exactly...? Sounds to me like the venue is shit. 'Cos we got NIN.Com presale tickets, and we were treated like royalty. No lines anywhere, a separate entrance, better seats (without the insane "convenience fees" from TicketBastard on them, no less)... Hell, even the tickets themselves are pretty! (I still have to take a photo of mine. ETA: Okay...that was harder than I thought.)



It is a hell of a lot harder to photograph a shiny ticket in bad light than I expected it to be. Further attempts to show the shiny prettiness of my ticket did not turn out terribly well. But you get the point. Probably. It's SHINY and it has my name on it and it's purple and silver and stuff. Photos don't do it justice.



Anyway, I guess my point is that this is turning out to be one of the more controversial and talked-about tours that I've ever seen, and I'm genuinely shocked at how much of the talk is negative. I've done my fair share of bitching about certain concerts (is there a soul alive who hasn't heard my kvetching about the 2005 U2 gig where Bono lectured us all to call our PM - he even had the phone number up on all of the big-screens for us! HOW THOUGHTFUL - to get Canada to "drop the debt", and then told us how we could have better spent the $200 it cost each of us to see the fucking show???!?). Some concerts deserve to be bitched about. And as I've said, it is ALL a matter of opinion, and every show will strike something different in every member of the audience. But from where I was sitting (literally and figuratively), my assessment was that Trent Reznor went the extra mile to give his actual fans a proper farewell - from playing rare and thrilling stuff, to controlling the ticket prices (honestly, $75 to see three of the biggest music icons of my generation?!? WOW) and offering better seats/easier access/nicer treatment to the .Com crowd, to making sure that everyone was allowed to bring whatever cameras they wanted to bring without getting hassled by security - and for all of his efforts, he's gotten more shitty feedback than any of the truly awful bands or shows I've ever seen.



I don't blame him for waving goodbye. If my "fans" were as greedy and thankless as the most vocal ones I've seen thus far, I'd have quit long before Trent did.

The Annual Christmas Phone Meme!

I'm reposting this from my LJ after several successful years of hilarity. The only difference is that, because this is public and searchable, I shan't be posting my number right here for the world to see. Instead, if you'd like it (or want to direct me to yours), leave a comment here with your email address (or email me), and we'll do it that way. Also: For those who are able to see my Facebook contact info, you'll find the proper number there!

Now to the post, then...

Guess what time it is?


It's time for the

Annual Christmas voicemail meme!

Get out your phones!

I don't remember who started this, but we've had so much fun with it over the past few years, I thought I'd open myself up to it again. So many of us hardly get to talk these days, and what could be more festive than a message from a friend??

THE RULES:

• post your phone number in your blog/on Facebook so your friends can call and leave goofy messages (you can identify yourself, or, as a number of you have done in the past, you can mess with the recipient's head by being anonymous and simply leaving hints about who you are). A lot of you already have your numbers posted in your contact info, so just throw it into a note for friends to see!
  
• make sure you don't answer your phone - this is for MESSAGES, not conversations, seeing as everyone's busy at this time of year & probably can't sit still long enough to have long (and expensive!) chats with half of their friends list!
  
• if there's a good time at which to call you, specify it in your post (say, 8 p.m.-11 p.m. in your time zone, or all day Christmas Day, etc.), so people know when they'll get your voicemail/when there's no risk of waking anyone up/etc.
  
• make sure you check out your friends' blogs/Facebook notes etc. for other willing victims and call them too! Sing carols, tell jokes, ramble incessantly... Whatever you want to say or do, do it!
  

So there you have it. Ask for my number. Call me. I shan't be around my phone at all on Xmas Eve day or night, nor on Christmas Day, and there's no danger of it disturbing anyone, so you can call any time today, all night tonight (yes, even 4 a.m.), or tomorrow, if you like. It's open 24/7. And no, it's not my cell phone, because we all know that's been ALWAYS buggy.

Now have at it! Most of you already know I have the world's best outgoing message. And I'll check in on my comments and emails later to see who among you have done the same...'cos if you post this, I WILL CALL. [/Field Of Dreams moment]

LET THE MEME BEGIN. POST YER NUMBERS AN' WIN A PRIZE.

(If you consider a call from me a "prize". HAH. But I take requests, and I may sing, or recite verses. I'm like a box o' chocolates, folks. And, apparently, so are you - I get the weirdest calls from you guys... They amuse me so. Some of them are still saved from two years ago, even!)


Happy holidays, everyone!

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.

Monday linkspam, my lovelies!

Another week begins (and this one marks the start of Charmaine's new job, so everyone should wish her luck!). In order to help us all get through it, then, I've opted to bring to you a collection of your favourite kind of linkspam: LISTS. This lot was easy to compile, since they all presented themselves to me once I'd posted that horrifying article on The 50 Worst Movie Sex Scenes on Facebook. (I just knew we'd see "Monster's Ball" [NOT SAFE FOR WORK!!!] on there; my god, I had to look away, and I was alone when I saw it). So give thanks to Nerve.Com for the following collection that should provide you at least an hour of amusement... (Be warned, as usual, that there's a 99% chance that most of this is NSFW. Just because it's Char's first day doesn't mean it should be anyone's LAST at their job, just for reading my blog. I do have some conscience. Sort of.)

• The Top 20 Viral Videos of 2007 - I see that the featured one is that lovely Miss America "a lot of kids don't have maps!!" clip; having not yet looked at the rest, I can only imagine...
  
  
• The 20 Hottest Music Videos Of All Time - am I seriously the only one who finds Fiona Apple's "Criminal" more disturbing and repulsive than sexy?? I fail to see what an emaciated young woman crawling around in her underwear is meant to offer us by way of...well, anything. Actually, this list is, in my opinion, TERRIBLE. Aside from Shakira, Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears and David Bowie (and who'd have thought I'd ever name them in the same sentence??), the rest of these choices are a complete miss. I mean...Rick James? Seriously?? And "Hot For Teacher" is just asinine. Bad song, bad video, lousy band. And NOT HOT. I think I need to do my own list (and make 25 of them Nine Inch Nails videos...).
  
  
• The 50 Best Date Movies - there are some seriously weird choices here ("Donnie Darko"??? On a DATE??), but everyone knows that "Say Anything..." is gonna make this list. How many of the 50 are you willing to admit you saw? (I'm still counting.) Extra points for putting "Heathers" on the list, but...I'm not sure what kind of date that would make for. More bonus points for the brilliant "Me And You And Everyone We Know"!
  
  
• The 40 Best Celebrity Rumours Ever - because some people still think that Richard Gere has a special place in his...heart...for his gerbil, and that Marilyn Manson got his start on Mr. Belvedere. Sigh.
  
  
• America's Top 10 Political Sex Scandals - how timely! I can't wait for someone to catch Obama doing something that isn't as patently dull as everything he's said and done so far.
  
• The 50 Greatest Comedy Sketches Of All Time - yeah, it's probably just me, but I think Christopher Walken's most recent appearance on SNL, in which he plays a gardener with a fear of plants ("I always knew it would be the ferns!"), should have made this list.
  
  
• The 50 Greatest Commercial Parodies Of All Time - self-explanatory. Some commercials are just so easy to spoof.
  

Now get on with your blue Monday, folks. (I'm blue because I SHOULD BE IN FREAKIN' WALES INSTEAD OF HERE, but that's another story.) I hope everyone still has their jobs after that whole bad sex scene list. I for one am still shuddering (and for the first time am glad my office doesn't have 'net access).

Mishmash: Linkspam, Terry Fox Run, and Mom's MRI!

Where to begin? I think I should first send out a HUGE thank you to everyone who's pledged in my name for the Terry Fox "Run" I'm doing in 6 days. You guys are amazing! I'm really, really grateful to all of you & I promise I'll make the donation worth your while. I also plan to thank each of you personally after I've accomplished this feat (it being a big deal because of my feet - ha!), but for now I must at least acknowledge those generous donors who've supported me thus far: Jerri, Stacey, Tierney, Matthew, Ian, Vanessa, Kathryn, the McCluskeys, Sara, Dale, and my Mom... I hope I'm not forgetting anyone! I'll make sure each one of you gets to see a wrung-out, gimpy photo of me after the fact. ♥ You've all outdone yourselves!!

Speaking of my Mom, many of you know she's been having a pretty rough time, health-wise, since January, and that she had a much-dreaded MRI this morning (her claustrophobia had prevented her from getting the first one done back in April - it's shockingly common for people to freak out and not get through this test). Well, SHE DID IT, and I applaud her bravery. Even without some of the comforts she'd been promised, which were taken away from her at the last possible second (i.e. me being allowed to go into the room with her; an extra-powerful sedative that she chose not to take after all), she kept it together and we're all so relieved that she can finally relax...and maybe this MRI can tell us more about why her health has been so bad for the past 8 or 9 months. YAY, MOM!! No-one should ever underestimate the guts she has.

Okay - it's MASSIVE linkspam time again! I love getting all those half-amused, half-enraged messages from you guys that blame me for you not getting anything done on the days when I post a bunch of weirdly fascinating links. But, hey, it's Monday! Who wants to accomplish anything on a Monday?? (I know; I use that line for every day of the week. Case in point: last Wednesday's endless list of urban legends!) So sit back and start clicking:

• TIME: Top 10 Scandals of 2007 - These range from U.S. politics to Michael Vick's pit bulls. One highlight reminds us of that totally whacked-out astronaut chick who stalked her fellow NASA dude across the country while wearing diapers. Makes you wonder what the 2008 list is gonna look like, doesn't it??
  
  
• TIME: Top 10 Break-Ups of 2007 - ...and they're not all what you think! Sure, Justin Timberlake was bound to make the list, but George Dubya and Karl Rove? Aww. I never knew they had a widdle womance goin' on. (This IS coming from TIME Magazine; they had to keep things at least a little political.)
  
  
• TIME: Top 10 Viral Videos of 2007 - If you feel the need to hear that alien-boy shrieking LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE! just one more time, this is the list for you. My favourite? DAFT HANDS!! I'll never stop being amazed at that.
  
  
• TIME: Top 10 Awkward Moments of 2007 - I don't mean to hassle the Hoff, but, dude, that drunken hamburger-eating video defines awkward. Hearing Alec Baldwin's infamous "rude little pig" voicemail to his lovely daughter gets a nod, too. Oh, and the one that made #6? None other than...
  
  
• Britney's Jaw-Droppingly Bad '07 VMA Performance - God, it gets more painful every time I see it. I figure it's timely that I post this video once more, since she barely made a ripple last night *yawn* when she kicked off the show with one whole line. Gimme gimme more, Brit. Srsly.
  
  
• Anderson Cooper Doesn't Care About Scientologists! - Someone call Kanye! Oh...wait...never mind. Anyway, I love seeing my TV boyfriend ruffle people's feathers. Especially INSANE PEOPLE. Which brings me to...
  
  
• The scariest Tom Cruise video ever - How bloody annoying is that awful Mission: Impossible loop in the background??? AUGH. You've probably already seen Cruise Control's video, but have you seen the brilliant spoofs done by Craig Ferguson and Jerry O'Connell? I'm amazed they're still with us. And that allows me to neatly segue into...
  
  
• "SAVE KATIE!" group buys tickets to her Broadway show - And from the sounds of it, they're the only ones. (Does anyone really think they can rescue Katie - oops, sorry, KATE - from Xenu??)
  
  
• David Duchovny Screwed Around A Lot - REEEEALLY?? *eyeroll* I don't think anyone actually bought his "no, I swear, I was only addicted to internet porn!!!" protestations as he slunk off to rehab. I say no, no, no.
  
  
• Robert De Niro says F*#K OFF to film - ...and here's hoping that spells the official end of Mel Gibson's career!
  
  Now to finish off with a few more entertaining lists ('cos I know they're you're favourite)...
  
  
• 5 Cheap Tricks TV Shows Use To Keep You Watching - No surprise that the first photo you see is from LOST.
  
  
• The 5 Most Obviously Drug-Fueled TV Appearances Ever - I don't know...I think Crispin Glover is really just LIKE that.
  
  
• The 6 Most Gratuitously Cleavaged Women on TV - While I'm pretty sure "cleavaged" isn't a word, there really isn't any better way of putting it.
  
  
• The 7 Most Unforgivable Grammy Snubs Of All Time - I'm still gritting my teeth over #6. What the hell??
  

All right. Enough. It's probably Tuesday by now. I hope you found some entertainment in that mixed bag o' links, 'cos if you didn't...well, cripes, they were the best I had at the time!!

I'll close out by saying that, if you were still planning to pledge a couple o' bucks for my Terry Fox Walk-Don't-Run (only 6 days now...egad!), I'm still gratefully accepting donations! You can do it one of three ways:

• If you see me in person (though I admit it's rare to see me in the wild), I have a pledge sheet and an envelope!
  
• You can DONATE AT MY TERRYFOX.ORG SITE & they'll send you a receipt.
  
• If you hate using your credit card online, but you have a PayPal account, feel free to transfer funds to me (prettyh@sympatico.ca) straight from your bank account! You can even use this handy button, which immediately puts your money into my Terry Fox Fund.
  

THANK YOU, AGAIN!!

Sick Chicks and The Spoon Theory

I've been updating this thing far too often in the past couple of days. But one more for the road, because there are so many people who have no comprehension of what it's like to have a chronic health issue. I've lost friends over it, as they've taken personally my inability to be the social butterfly I once was. I do better these days, since we've sorted a few of the kinks out, but some of my issues have been with me since birth, and to be in my life means you have to know that my limitations aren't something you should ever take personally.

It's hard to believe that it was only five or six years ago that I could be out dancing every night, get home as the sun came up, go to work on no sleep, and still function. I often joke that I used up everything I had in my early-to-mid-20s. That's not to say I don't still manage, of course - I have a hell of a lot of fun when I set my mind to it - but it's less frequent, and more...thought out...than it used to be, by necessity. It's true for all of us, I'm sure; nobody's the same at 30 as they are at 20. But for me, and for some of my friends (you know who you are), it's more than that. Our bodies start howling at us to slow down, and my god, the price we pay if we don't listen...?

This is where I shut up and turn to blog entries such as "Is it worth the risk?", and websites like ButYouDon'tLookSick.Com, which features the amazingly evocative and now infamous (well, in my circles, anyway) "Spoon Theory" essay. They say it better than I ever could.

Normally I'd just link to this (as I did to the Feministe entry, which is well worth a look - it's all about why nobody should ever assume they know the solution to a friend's health problems), but because it's now only available as a PDF, I'm pasting the whole essay here. Please read it. If not for me, then for someone else you may know who "doesn't look sick".

---

THE SPOON THEORY (copyright 2003 C. Miserandino)
My best friend and I were in the diner, talking. As usual, it was very late and we were eating French fries with gravy. Like normal girls our age, we spent a lot of time in the diner while in college, and most of the time we spent talking about boys, music or trivial things, that seemed very important at the time. We never got serious about anything in particular and spent most of our time laughing.

As I went to take some of my medicine with a snack as I usually did, she watched me with an awkward kind of stare, instead of continuing the conversation. She then asked me out of the blue what it felt like to have Lupus and be sick. I was shocked not only because she asked the random question, but also because I assumed she knew all there was to know about Lupus. She came to doctors with me, she saw me walk with a cane, and throw up in the bathroom. She had seen me cry in pain, what else was there to know?

I started to ramble on about pills, and aches and pains, but she kept pursuing, and didn't seem satisfied with my answers. I was a little surprised as being my roommate in college and friend for years; I thought she already knew the medical definition of Lupus. Then she looked at me with a face every sick person knows well, the face of pure curiosity about something no one healthy can truly understand. She asked what it felt like, not physically, but what it felt like to be me, to be sick.

As I tried to gain my composure, I glanced around the table for help or guidance, or at least stall for time to think. I was trying to find the right words. How do I answer a question I never was able to answer for myself? How do I explain every detail of every day being affected, and give the emotions a sick person goes through with clarity? I could have given up, cracked a joke like I usually do, and changed the subject, but I remember thinking if I don’t try to explain this, how could I ever expect her to understand? If I can’t explain this to my best friend, how could I explain my world to anyone else? I had to at least try.

At that moment, the spoon theory was born. I quickly grabbed every spoon on the table; hell. I grabbed spoons off of the other tables. I looked at her in the eyes and said “Here you go, you have Lupus”. She looked at me slightly confused, as anyone would when they are being handed a bouquet of spoons. The cold metal spoons clanked in my hands, as I grouped them together and shoved them into her hands.

I explained that the difference in being sick and being healthy is having to make choices or to consciously think about things when the rest of the world doesn’t have to. The healthy have the luxury of a life without choices, a gift most people take for granted.

Most people start the day with unlimited amount of possibilities, and energy to do whatever they desire, especially young people. For the most part, they do not need to worry about the effects of their actions. So for my explanation, I used spoons to convey this point. I wanted something for her to actually hold, for me to then take away, since most people who get sick feel a “loss” of a life they once knew. If I was in control of taking away the spoons, then she would know what it feels like to have someone or something else, in this case Lupus, being in control.

She grabbed the spoons with excitement. She didn’t understand what I was doing, but she is always up for a good time, so I guess she thought I was cracking a joke of some kind like I usually do when talking about touchy topics. Little did she know how serious I would become.

I asked her to count her spoons. She asked why, and I explained that when you are healthy you expect to have a never-ending supply of "spoons". But when you have to now plan your day, you need to know exactly how many “spoons” you are starting with. It doesn’t guarantee that you might not lose some along the way, but at least it helps to know where you are starting. She counted out 12 spoons. She laughed and said she wanted more. I said no, and I knew right away that this little game would work, when she looked disappointed, and we hadn't even started yet. I’ve wanted more "spoons" for years and haven’t found a way yet to get more, why should she? I also told her to always be conscious of how many she had, and not to drop them because she can never forget she has Lupus.

I asked her to list off the tasks of her day, including the most simple. As she rattled off daily chores, or just fun things to do, I explained how each one would cost her a spoon. When she jumped right into getting ready for work as her first task of the morning, I cut her off and took away a spoon. I practically jumped down her throat. I said, "No! You don’t just get up. You have to crack open your eyes, and then realize you are late. You didn’t sleep well the night before. You have to crawl out of bed, and then you have to make yourself something to eat before you can do anything else, because if you don’t, you can't take your medicine, and if you don’t take your medicine you might as well give up all your spoons for today and tomorrow too." I quickly took away a spoon and she realized she hasn’t even gotten dressed yet. Showering cost her a spoon, just for washing her hair and shaving her legs. Reaching high and low that early in the morning could actually cost more than one spoon, but I figured I would give her a break; I didn’t want to scare her right away. Getting dressed was worth another spoon. I stopped her and broke down every task to show her how every little detail needs to be thought about. You cannot simply just throw clothes on when you are sick. I explained that I have to see what clothes I can physically put on, if my hands hurt that day buttons are out of the question. If I have bruises that day, I need to wear long sleeves, and if I have a fever I need a sweater to stay warm and so on. If my hair is falling out I need to spend more time to look presentable, and then you need to factor in another 5 minutes for feeling badly that it took you 2 hours to do all this.

I think she was starting to understand when she theoretically didn’t even get to work, and she was left with 6 spoons. I then explained to her that she needed to choose the rest of her day wisely, since when your “spoons” are gone, they are gone. Sometimes you can borrow against tomorrow’s "spoons", but just think how hard tomorrow will be with less "spoons". I also needed to explain that a person who is sick always lives with the looming thought that tomorrow may be the day that a cold comes, or an infection, or any number of things that could be very dangerous. So you do not want to run low on "spoons", because you never know when you truly will need them. I didn’t want to depress her, but I needed to be realistic, and unfortunately being prepared for the worst is part of a real day for me.

We went through the rest of the day, and she slowly learned that skipping lunch would cost her a spoon, as well as standing on a train, or even typing at her computer too long. She was forced to make choices and think about things differently.

Hypothetically, she had to choose not to run errands, so that she could eat dinner that night.

When we got to the end of her pretend day, she said she was hungry. I summarized that she had to eat dinner but she only had one spoon left. If she cooked, she wouldn’t have enough energy to clean the pots. If she went out for dinner, she might be too tired to drive home safely. Then I also explained that I didn’t even bother to add into this game that she was so nauseous that cooking was probably out of the question anyway. So she decided to make soup, it was easy. I then said it is only 7pm, you have the rest of the night but maybe end up with one spoon, so you can do something fun, or clean your apartment, or do chores, but you can’t do it all.

I rarely see her emotional, so when I saw her upset I knew maybe I was getting through to her. I didn’t want my friend to be upset, but at the same time I was happy to think finally maybe someone understood me a little bit. She had tears in her eyes and asked quietly, “Christine, how do you do it? Do you really do this everyday?” I explained that some days were worse then others; some days I have more spoons then most. But I can never make it go away and I can’t forget about it, I always have to think about it. I handed her a spoon I had been holding in reserve. I said simply, “I have learned to live life with an extra spoon in my pocket, in reserve. You need to always be prepared.”

It's hard, the hardest thing I ever had to learn is to slow down, and not do everything. I fight this to this day. I hate feeling left out, having to choose to stay home, or to not get things done that I want to. I wanted her to feel that frustration. I wanted her to understand, that everything everyone else does comes so easy, but for me it is one hundred little jobs in one. I need to think about the weather, my temperature that day, and the whole day's plans before I can attack any one given thing. When other people can simply do things, I have to attack it and make a plan like I am strategizing a war. It is in that lifestyle, the difference between being sick and healthy. It is the beautiful ability to not think and just do. I miss that freedom. I miss never having to count "spoons".

After we were emotional and talked about this for a little while longer, I sensed she was sad. Maybe she finally understood. Maybe she realized that she never could truly and honestly say she understands. But at least now she might not complain so much when I can't go out for dinner some nights, or when I never seem to make it to her house and she always has to drive to mine. I gave her a hug when we walked out of the diner. I had the one spoon in my hand and I said “Don’t worry. I see this as a blessing. I have been forced to think about everything I do. Do you know how many spoons people waste everyday? I don’t have room for wasted time, or wasted “spoons” and I chose to spend this time with you.”

Ever since this night, I have used the spoon theory to explain my life to many people. In fact, my family and friends refer to spoons all the time. It has been a code word for what I can and cannot do. Once people understand the spoon theory they seem to understand me better, but I also think they live their life a little differently too. I think it isn’t just good for understanding Lupus, but anyone dealing with any disability or illness. Hopefully, they don’t take so much for granted or their life in general. I give a piece of myself, in every sense of the word, when I do anything. It has become an inside joke. I have become famous for saying to people jokingly that they should feel special when I spend time with them, because they have one of my "spoons".

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This goes out to my own personal support group - you know who you are, LJers* ; how lucky are we to have each other, 24/7, no matter what else is going on in our lives? - and to my family and closest friends, who never begrudge me an extra hour (or three) off my feet, and who never presume to know exactly how I feel, and who love me all the same. I love you all twice as much for it.

*(Meli, Casey, Lucy, Shannon, Jenn, Joolie, Jessica, Seph, Carla, Jan, Matthew, Kim, Rachel, Polly, April, Alicia, Jillian, Vashti, Jess, Emily, Josie, David, Katie, Jason, JJ, Bri, Tiffany, Maggie, Aurora, Tierney, Crystal, Stephen, Beki, Sam, Mina, Linda, Cassie... I beg forgiveness if I missed any of my LJ Inner Sanctum. It's just the fog setting in. xoxo)

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