Fecalphelia and worse things…

I am preparing for tomorrow’s departure to the greener pastures of California for a whirlwind four-day stomp around by ensuring my little monkey-faced burden is well exercised for the babysitters and I am well rested. It’s a tough balancing act but one I find is made possible by long morning walks along the sea wall. The kid seems to be like this and the effort of cavorting over slimy rocks and sandbars seems to do him in with a satisfied glow. As the days in beachland are getting fewer, I decided to take him for a very substantial one today.

So off we went into the rainy morning to take advantage of the low tide and scamper off leash amongst the rocks below the sea wall. Lennon is a big fan of dancing around by where the sea once was to gobble up all kinds of deliciously harmful ocean refuse. I continue to let him to this because of my inherent laziness and desire to have him off leash. Today, this absentee mothering was coupled with excited long-distance phone calls to two of my fave five to get excited about the trip. Lennon saw this as not only a slight against those who weren’t going to California (i.e. him) and an opportunity to engage in our favorite of his many perversions: fecalphelia.

You have never seen a dog more hyped on smelling like an anus than this one. He wears it like a badge of honor when I see it ONLY as a cloak of shame. And here’s the kicker: Lenny doesn’t dabble in just any ol’ shit, he likes the human or goose variety. Now I know what you;re saying: “Bridget, where are you gonna find human shit?”. The answer lies in the tall grass by the public beach at English Bay. Large, soft, unhealthy-looking mounds of human feces lay wait in those reeds for the unsuspecting yet eager jowls of the lowest common denominator of canine companion (i.e. Lenny again) to find them and ensure their continued existence in the circle of life. Lennon Squiggy has the holy gift for finding these and making them part of my day.

Today was one of those glorious occasions. But this time with a delightful twist.

You see I was being silly and feeling like I – oh I dunno – deserved a moment of excitement about something. His nibs here is enjoying the life of a Mouseketeer, I think he can afford me one or two elated phone calls. I think wrong.

Lenny tried a couple of times to get me to chase him on the beach but I was too busy making high-pitched noises with my sister over our elation of going to a candy-coated blissville for four days. We were going to the actual Happiest Place on Earth, shouldn’t it stand to reason that we might need to speak of such things in a voice other than the one we use at the library? Well it is often when I am excited about something that has nothing to do with Sultan Leonard over here, he tends to make the proceedings about him. Usually involving a stink of some kind. Today it was a large pile of soft feces filled with what looked like salsa. Too descriptive? Well I am not going to be the only one who saw it…I’m bringing you down to this hell with me.

So by the time I realize he is no longer dutifully walking to my 2 o’clock, I put my call on hold and turn to find him. In the distance I see his ass end up in the air which means one thing: feces break-dancing. This is his standard move when he finds liquid shit to roll in. It looks like someone windmilling in a pile of beef stew. Utterly unforgettable.

By the time I run to him, he is covered almost from head to toe with someone’s organic waste. It’s all I can do to stop from fainting, especially once noticing his poop beard and coming to the grim realization that he had eaten at least one mouthful of it. God damn…..I almost puked just fucking writing that.

So now I have to deal with this shit. I have to put his harness on which is like trying to put a garter belt on an electric eel; I would rather die than get any of this toxic nightmare on my bare hands. I snap the harness on and, like he always does, Lennon gives himself a shake. Words cannot describe the noises in my brain when I closed my eyes and realized my face was getting coated with foreign poo. It sounded like babies screaming, glass breaking, and a solitary fiddle being played off tune and feverishly.

Minutes later we are walking rapidly and only 50% happily back home. Lennon, though pissed to be on leash, was trotting happily like he was a Jersey wife wearing her new chinchilla. I don’t know what kind of twisted fuck animal community reveres the scent of human crap, but if Lenny wants to be their king, then I need to start re-evaluation on my current hero-worship levels where he is concerned. So yeah, he’s totally chuffed. Meanwhile, I am wearing a face that could only be described as Laurence Fishburne’s drill sergeant father. I kept looking at his prancing little ass and fantasize about kicking it into the ocean in lieu of the traumatizing bathing experience I was about to endure. I’ll consent to his pillow rape, but I’ll be damned if I am going to enable fecalphelia from an animal with no opposable thumbs and therefore no self-cleaning abilities.

What happens next is really not of any importance. It’s the same soul sucking shirtless fear and loathing nightmare you may imagine. Poop water flowing down the surface I must bathe in. The knowledge that no amount of Scrubbing Bubbles With Bleach will erase that memory during the upcoming and assured ruined baths. And the standard “not poop water free yet” shake that he does which throws mess all over my shower. It’s a glamorous life I lead. Any of you who are wondering how great it would be to live with the beautiful and famous Lennon Squiggy can take this story to the bank. Real top-notch detail, this one.

I know this will probably bring about some kind of acid-tongued rebuttal from the Pomeranian camp, but I welcome it. He can bring about whatever hell he chooses, it won’t be nearly as affecting as the one where you have to close your eyes all the time for passing poop storms. That one: the worst.

Just play me a ditty….its really all I’m looking for.

Was a strangely intense week. Many things occurring to me. It’s amazing how when you get over it, you start noticing amazing things around you that you were totally not seeing because you were only seeing what your ego could use.

I reviewed a Sheepdogs show this week and it was, as always, a great show. At a general admission venue so I could get real close. I settled in for a battle to hold my position amongst the tight and geared up crowd. It was a real sausage fest and it was like they were all feeding off each other. I overheard a lot of bragging randomly, and once I started noticing it, its like it was all I could hear. Bragging about random things too like their vinyl collection or flexing their guitar model knowledge. It was really awesome. A room full of peacocks; it really made for an interesting energy.

The band came out and everyone brought out their cameras. Like EVERYONE. Camera phones, flashing digital cameras, the whole spectrum of recording devices. No one really got instantly into the music…they did eventually but at first they were consumed with capturing what was going on with their cameras rather than their mind. Well, that is except for the girl in front of me who was bringing out her whole bag of tricks to ensure the band noticed her.

I met the back of her hand with my face several times as she engaged in what I like to call “the Trixie LaRue”. It’s the drunk girl rock out you see often at live music events and it can be deadly. It’s basically a fist pump but instead of a fist its sprawled fingers, a limp wrist, extremely erratic movements, and an intense desire to be noticed. And then it hit me like a sucker punch: what if this is what I looked like last time?

The administrative department of my brain began frantically blowing dust off the memory banks in search of any snippet of truth to support this fear and though most of what I found was inadmissible due to the witness being unreliable, I couldn’t deny there was probable cause enough to warrant a case. It’s entirely possible that I was Trixie LaRue. After all, music does strange things to you. Perhaps its better to be Trixie LaRue that No Fun Deborah. Yes. Yes it is.

This was a sober realization that wouldn’t have been made possible without the cash machine in the lobby malfunctioning thus withholding my beer money like an angry wife. Dejected, I was forced to watch music be performed without beer. It was strange…scary…but I did it. And it was excellent….I did get a little stoned though; one can’t just be reckless with sobriety. It has a time and a place and going against that can cause damage.

It got me really into a mood to watch live music. Decided to dig out The Strange Sensation and show them to people. It got me really hyped up about Plant (like more than I already was which is a tall order).If you have not heard Robert Plant and the Strange Sensation, it must be located stat. Don’t be lame, go get it.

Yessir they don’t make bands like this too often anymore. They try, but there’s always some kind of fatal flaw that emerges. And yeah, I am too hard on bands, I’ll admit that…but with good reason. Good music, the kind that really makes use of the parts of your brain and body which are known for having the right kind of electricity for change, enlightenment, and pleasure, is rare. Very very rare. But rare things are precious, yes? Worth looking for? Worth swearing by and holding out for? Fuck yes they are. I’d rather labour to enjoy a delicacy rather than line up for my staple meal.

Strange Sensation is a large presence. At first they seem like an odd group of misfits, each one of them looking nothing like the bare-chested king snake that was Led Zeppelin. But the music they made on that album was nothing short of stand-alone hefty. It was like a psychedelic progressive blues romp through rockville with world music laced right through it.

Lyrically, the album was full of astute, poetic, rock and roll statements about everything from war to fame to fate. The writing is top-notch. And when you watch them perform live, its amazing how pitch perfectly they are not only performed but reimagined with jammy bridges and pulsating intros that grip you, open-mouthed.

When Plant toured with this project, I snagged 5th row floor seats. It was absurd how good this show was. This band is UNBELIEVABLY tight and have an incredible ability to ride the jet stream neck and neck through every tune, blissfully enjoying the seeming effortlessness of the ride. keyboardist John Baggott and drummer Clive Deamer are from Portishead’s live band so it makes total sense that they would be able to drive the rhythm of a mood unwaveringly. When they get going in one of their bridges, its trance-like but not so much that you don’t notice the little jabs of rock and roll danger they throw in there at the same time. Tremendous.

Special mention must go to Justin Adams who steals the show on many occasions. It would be silly to try to describe why, one must track down the DVD of the band playing at Sound Stage to really see what I mean. Seriously, find that DVD, smoke a little, turn up the volume, and enjoy. That’s the formula, and it works.

And then there’s Robert Plant. There is a noisy not-so-little voice inside me that loves him more than any other man. For many reasons. I always liked Zeppelin but it was when I saw the Madison Square Garden performance of Black Dog, that’s when I had my first taste of real swagger….and it pretty much ruined me. Cause now…its all I want. How can you make do with just any ol’ thing when you’ve witnessed the open-shirted, thrusting, unhinged and captivating vocal stylings of one of rock and roll’s greatest front men? I don’t care if it’s a high bar, it’s the best bar. Why not concentrate your efforts there?

So yeah, I dig swagger. I dig it a lot. It has infected me more than any of my other addictions. But its one of those fruitful addictions so you’d be hard-pressed to get me to consider rehab for this one. And yeah, I’d be lying if I said that swagger didn’t bring out my inner Trixie LaRue. It does. It ignites some kind of electrical storm in my pants and we all know once that happens, you lose all conscious control of you actions. I am a very passionate fan and I happen to have working private parts so…naturally those traits would co-conspire against me but their reasons are valid: life it short and shit like this feels good. The end.

Feels better to admit that. Feels like admitting it makes it easier to find. And I do wanna find it. I wanna take long hot baths in it. Up to my eyelids. I’m romantic about it in fact. Gonna own my inner LaRue. Which takes swagger, and I’ve been saving mine.

Swagger: back.

What a difference a good ol’ fashioned pre mid-life crisis makes!

After my well-documented meltdown in Halifax, things just started to dismantle in my brain. Every strange little statue I had erected came crumbling down like they were made of chalk dust…which I guess it turns out they were. I feel like i have been tied to a chair in my own brain, bound and gagged with a potato sac over my head…and someone just pulled it off. That someone? (*whispers*) It was meeee.

Facing my decisions head on instead of making excuses and passing blame about them has been enriching as hell. Owning it big time. Yeah, I did those things. And I have zero regret about it. Wanna fight about it? Onward and upward, no time for pity or punishment. Yeah I chose this life. I really did. And I think, despite looking like a bum on paper, I did a fucking bang up job of being courageous, open, passionate, and humble enough to lick my own wounds. In fact, one thing has emerged more stentorian than anything else amongst the rubble of all my false idols: I’ve actually turned into kind of an amazing woman.

I got hung up worrying about all the things I wasn’t and all the things I don’t have. I think it stemmed from being picked on so much as a kid, its like I was pin-pointing what it was about me that people could possibly judge or have something to say about. What I desperately needed to do, and was finally forced to do recently through a number of well situated universal lessons, was admit without fear that I didn’t want any of the things I was lacking. Not one of them. And that didn’t make me defective, it made me me. I’ve never wanted to be on that side of the fence. Why start now? Now when I have learned so much?

This has brought with it such an amazing sense of freedom. This freedom has unleashed my swagger for real; nothing artificial about it. My words come easy when they aren’t stilted by a cruel and gutless inner editor in chief. My decisions come quicker and more expertly when I am not weighing them against the opinions of an army of spectators. My desires burn with real fire now that I am not lying about what they are. I can feel things, really feel things, now that I am not wearing some imposter’s skin. And a WHOLE LOT of shit is getting done now that I am not wasting all my time apologizing. It feels remarkable to be honest about who I am and what I want. And I feel pretty damn excited to go out there and get it.

I no longer fear whatever fate awaits me for being this person. I no longer fear regretting my choices because I know they are the right ones. The energy I am putting out is making many things more accessible and seems to be making it easier for people to interact with me. My karma is top-notch right now and its breathing life into my life.

This was a big year, and it’s not over yet! 2011 will go down as the biggest game-changing set of 12 months in my whole crazy time on this crazy piece of space junk. I’ve always tried to march forward despite being pelted with abusive sabotage from my own brain, but this year I came a LONG way. Nearly ten times the amount of any progress made previously. I snapped out of it, found myself a couple of meaty low gears, and have been tearing up the road on what is really quite an enjoyable ride. Remarkably enjoyable actually. And beautiful once you are confident in your driving enough to allow your eyes to look at something other than the yellow lines that get eaten up by your spinning wheels.

I like it out here. I know just what to do to get my motor running and keep it running. And I am going to keep doing it and finding it until I breathe my last breath. Cause my destiny never was to rack up the typical scorecard, I was always gonna be off somewhere doing my wacky own thing. I’m good at it.

A woman came in the office the other day and said “its cool that you have a real job but you’re still obviously being yourself. I’ve been trying to live in both worlds but it isn’t easy”. I smiled. That was nice feedback. It’s a relief to think about how I have found a situation that will make life possible for me so that dreaming and adventuring can also still happen….without losing a shred of the wackadoo that lives within me. I used to be so wary of getting a “real job” cause I didn’t want to turn into one of those people who resigns, gives up, and fades away. But now I realize that will never happen…because the world has no say in who I become, only I do. And I have never and will never let myself go down that path. Where I go every day to collect a pay cheque is just my job, in the grand scheme, I am not my job. I am Bridget and that is WAY too complicated and robust an answer to attach a title to in order to sum it up.

I’m Bridget. And my life is a tremendous creation that I am very proud of. Just the way it is. And the way its going to be. Here’s to the Possibilities and the Truth; I’m courting them both exclusively right now and I gotta say…not only is the conversation much more stimulating but the sex is GREAT. I’m a lucky girl.

Taking a look around

I have had the flu the last few days. The result of an assault I laid on my immune system by way of a weekend of debauchery in celebration of my friend’s nuptials. It was a rare occasion for me to be at a wedding, particularly one of someone who I care so deeply for. So I celebrated with both fists. It was magical.

Alas, it comes with a flip side that looks and smells like a three-day old dead otter. I’ve been mattress paste for two days. With all this time to think and fantasize, I couldn’t help but notice how two thoughts began to emerge: I really don’t ever want to go back to work, and I really feel like I am missing something. This missing something thing has been a big part of my daily thought process for most of my life, but the work thing has become a much more nagging voice as the days have been progressing.

Life just feels deeply like it is worth more than a soul sucking grind that tends to make me low and angry on a scale that is extremely unlike me. I am not doing what I should be doing. I am not happy. In fact….I’m becoming a corpse.

If I would rather be near death with the flu, pasted to my sheets with mucous, than at my job, something is very very wrong. I think the real reason I have courted the bottle and been having bouts of panic that lead to spiraling freak outs lately is that I am aware I am in a rut and am kicking and screaming about it. Something must be done before I become one of those veggies on the bus who ropes people into talks about the corns on their feet just to pass the time of the commute. I would rather. Die.

So here we go. What to do? Must get the ball rolling. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t dream of saving up a wad of cash and using it to hit the road for half a year to write the story I have been sitting on for a while, the story that requires field research in the way of pure and wonderful freedom in the unknown. And truly…its possible, isn’t it? I could do that, right? If I stopped pissing my money away on drunken nights and a shitty lunch at Tim Hortons every day? Think about it…I could do it. I could do it as soon as next year.it.

All my little trinkets and belongings around my apartment that used to fill me with pride or at least amusement have now become items I could so easily shed in favour of finding myself out there. All I really need is my laptop and Lenny. I could get a car, a wad of cash, and blow this pop stand. And who cares if I came back a new woman or not…at least I would have done something. Right? Something. I can’t keep doing nothing. I just can’t.

We’ll see if we can get this going. Lets see what we can arrange. Lets see how much we can scrape together if we really really want it. And we do. We really do.

For now…I gotta get some sleep. I can’t afford any more sick days. Gotta get back to that place tomorrow. Like it or not. But hey, it’s now temporary right? You’re damn right it is.

Own it

The world is breathing these days. This occupy Earth thing has proven to be god damned inspiring. Never one for political matters in the past, mostly because of sheer disbelief in the possibility of change, I never really took much time to get riled about what a shit show I was living in. But its true, here I am saddled with debt just for trying to get an education. And I got one, boy howdy…but it wasn’t the one I paid for.

But hey, that’s the ride. I bought the ticket and I kept it pressed in the pages of my diary along with my prom corsage and the lock of Matthew McConaughey’s hair I bought off Ebay…which I am pretty sure is the ass hair of a chimp but I suspend disbelief and sleep with it pressed between my lip and gums like tobaccie anyway.

Here’s the thing, I ain’t afraid of my licks. I went into this thing knowing that it was possible I would be left holding an expensive bag that was only worth something to me. I had ideas of walking around my big shit apartment in Vancouver on my iPhone making deals in my satin pyjamas. I won’t lie; it looked pretty snazzy. To deny that I am a swagger junkie who longs to be the female Dean Martin, dripping with drunken charm and limitless guest list would be a laugh. I want it. I want it bad. But I have stared it in the face a few times and have backed off what it takes to get it. Why?

I have tried to play the other side. I tried to be the pasta maker set, with my white wine chilling in the fridge instead of opened still in the paper bag. I tried to pay attention to which condo view meant more to the market. I got pretty close. Well….not pretty close but I trespassed. And they sniffed me out anyway. It didnt last long. And it was nerve-wracking the whole time. I should’ve known better.

I pushed pennies around tonight just to buy pizza and beer. And I ingested both while watching Wall Street. The pin striped mumbo jumbo was all at once seductive and debilitating as I choked down my extra cheese Megabite (seriously guys…that place is SO cheap and delicious. With a sesame seed crust. That be savvy folks). Am I saying this as some kind of “the smaller things” working class smug dogma? No. Would I rather be eating lobster and champagne? Fuck yea. What am I saying? I don’t know. This is just where I am at and I am owning it.

Someone once told me that I was spectacular and that I should own it. Though I think the “spectacular” label is negotiable due to my crippling self-doubt but the “own it” philosophy is given wings by my flawed bravery. I am what I am right now. If I met me at a bar, I would think I was interesting. So why fight that? Why not own it? Then maybe, just maybe, I can have lobster and champagne about it one day. But it won’t be in a condo…it’ll be in some kind of stage of maniacal freedom, with scars and stripes painted on me from my decisions. That’s just how I roll.

I believe in what’s happening now. I believe that change is needed. We can’t keep going the way we are going. But I will admit my love of the finer things and my desire to find a way to enjoy them that has NOTHING to do with the current state of affairs. I’m bitter that I’m poor but not bitter enough to play ball. I’m gonna wait it out and own who I am and what I want…and soon, us pizza people will get us some fucking lobster. And it will be good.

Planet Wall Street

My letter to the editor of the Province

Today the Vancouver Province published a ridiculous editorial piece on the upcoming Occupy Vancouver sit in this weekend. I decided to dust off my fiery side and write one of my patented letters to the editor. The article in question is below:

http://www.theprovince.com/opinion/Occupy+Vancouver+promises+whine/5549140/story.html?cid=megadrop_story

And now my response. Here’s to the 99%. We matter.

To: Editor of The Province

I feel compelled to respond to Mr. Ferry’s unfortunate bit of smug and willfully blind editorialism in today’s paper. I find his position to be laughably intolerant and doll-eyed. Saying Wall Street isn’t in Canada and therefore is not our concern is not only short-sighted and exclusionary but totally non-humanist. Before we’re Canadians (and apparently apathetic ones at that) we are human beings and the rights of fellow human beings is a paramount concern despite what side of the invisible lines they sit. The more people who think like Mr. Ferry, the less likely its going to be that we become a unified and compassionate society. Wrong is wrong regardless of geography and i don’t think giving a shit about such things can be called “whining”.  I think it is a huge (and suspiciously right-wing) mistake to compare a hockey riot to a peaceful protest. And I certainly think comparing the dismantling of the American economy by big business to high paid hockey players is insulting to not only the plight of the working class population but also the intelligence of your readers. Finally, his example of how we should have a hug in to celebrate how we are Vancouver much like we did at the Olympics drips with convenient amnesia; does he not recall the constant and at times aggressive protest those game received for exactly the same reasons of frustration over monetary mismanagement and socioeconomic discrimination? Does he not recall the incredible debt left in their wake? Wall Street isn’t that far away at all, sir. I suggest you pull that Roots toque up off your eyes and take a real look around. And quick.

Funeral for fatalism

So I have returned from the trip. And what a trip. I had moments of thinking I was the most impressive person alive, embracing my solitude with both surprisingly strong arms.Then I had moments of soul crushing loneliness where I believed that my time was up and there was no real reason for my continuing on this half-assed and unforgiving planet…to the point where I freaked out every member of my family via long distance drunk dialing. One week, and I characteristically packed a lifetime of existential nightmare into it. But I knew I would…I just should have sent out a memo to my loved ones.

I put so much pressure on my plans to amount to something. I need them, very much so, to amount to results. This puts pressure on not only me but on the fickle and unreachable fates. And nine times out of ten, I get what I wanted but not at ALL in the shape and form that I was expecting.

Let me preface this next section by saying that it in no way constitutes my belief that I am worthy or right in these feelings or assumptions. Ahem…

I think the definitive moment that shaped the first half of my life was when my sister was born. I looked at it as a slight; I had been ousted from this new team that didn’t include me. So I worked that assumption to cultivate an existence where I was alone: no one understood me, no one knew me, no one could touch me, and all my thoughts were secrets. I made friends just to get through life but I never let them get too close. And I used their eventual (and warranted) abandonment as fuel for my ever-growing distrust and isolation. What an angry and unfair situation to choose to live in. And it resulted in a poor relationship with my sister for the first few years…which is a HUGE shame.

I was a dissatisfaction expert. It was an obsession. An excuse.

“All my life my heart has sought a thing it cannot name”

So here we are at another turning point resulting from a crash landing. Quite the abusive union I have with myself. Jerking and twisting and torturing myself into a reaction. Taunting myself until the very worst comes out of me and I am left feeling like I can’t count on anyone. What a narcissistic, self-mutilating, vicious circle. I really do have to get over myself before there will be no one left who will put up with me.

I have recently been given good advice by a long-time hero: Woody Allen. Poignantly timed too. I watched Midnight in Paris on the plane home from this trip. This is a film made by a man who is from the town I just visited and adored the very core of. A film about how this man also discovered a town away from home that inspired him in the same way. It includes the following line:

“We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence. You have such a clear and lively voice, don’t be such a defeatist.”

This line inspired me beyond belief. After spending the last three nights of my vacation cursing the world that spat me out (or so I thought), it was nice to get advice from a fellow cynic who had seen the light through the capable eyes of art itself. And just when I thought I would be able to talk myself out of identifying with this line by saying that my particular vision and direction wasn’t artistic or valid enough, he hit me with this line:

“No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure.”

Amen sir. And message received.

This trip ended up being a much-needed empowerment lesson, albeit in a much different way than I thought it would be. The main idea that came out of it was that solitude suits me. Not in a reclusive way but simply in the way of those who don’t mind taking a walk by themselves every now and then. Or eating 15 oysters and having two glasses of wine by themselves (like I did today). I have wonderful people in my life: a wonderful and generous biological family that has put up with my antics with an understanding that can ONLY be the result of true love, and an adopted Vancouver family of artists and free-thinkers who embrace me and the world around them in a way that can also only be the result of love. It is all around me; now, to find it within myself. After that, I will be set on all sides and the pressure I put on myself and others that turns things toxic will be gone.

Being gone was amazing. Being back is great. And I am SO lucky to have people in my life who are willing to wait until I get my head out of my ass. I put it WAY up there because of how much pain I was inflicting on myself. It may take a while, but I will get there.

In the meantime, thank goodness for all of you. Especially my long-suffering travel companion who taught me how to roll with the punches this week. Good dog. Good guy to know. The finding of oneself seems to take FOREVER. So it is good perspective to share the road with a creature whose life passes seven times faster than yours does.

Once again…..I want to stay

Good god damn what an INCREDIBLE trip this has already been. Leaving Manhattan remains one of the hardest things in the world to do.

Manhattan is an incredible place. Truly incredible. I have always believed it was one of the most impressive places on earth, and the first time I came here back in 2009, I was in awe at how at home I felt. How truly easy it was to breathe and be amazing here. By the time this afternoon hit, Lenny and I were jay-walking like locals, chatting up firemen, and even giving directions. HA! Splendid.

I urge anyone who has yet to go to New York City to go. It is all at once the most powerful, stimulating, awe-inspiring, beautiful, friendly place I have ever been. I want to go there again already. And never come back.

When we first crested the George Washington Bridge and I saw the cluster of buildings from midtown west to downtown off in the distance, I lost my marbles as only I can. “AAAH!! Its Manhattan!! We did it Lenny!! Holy shit!!”. This was a big coup for me. I have recently been faced, through circumstances I never saw coming, with the possibility of growing old alone because of my decision to not have children. It never occurred to me that the decision to go childless may cost me. And being childless, there is no one to be there and take care of you when you’re an old bitty. Kinda hit me like tonne of bricks: shit…I could conceivably end up by myself. What the fuck…

The timing of this realization couldn’t have been more perfect because this trip was RIGHT around the corner. My first voyage as a solo traveller (before you superfans get in an uproar, I of course mean ASIDE from Lenny…who was amazing in NYC and will be the subject of a fawning shout out in a paragraph or two) and a challenging one at that. The drive alone was a feat of strength. Did it on no sleep the way there and did it after hours of strolling Manhattan and drinking my weight in beer the night before on the way back. I showed myself one hell of a good time. One hell of a birthday.

That’s another thing, this was the first time I didn’t organize some kind of pageant for my birthday. The first year I didn’t require validation from my friends in the form of celebration. It was just me, my dog, and my favorite place in the whole world. And it was stellar.

Little things too, like during the drive when I could sing along to all the shit on the CDs I brought. On the way back to Montreal today, I had to do the last three hours of the drive in the dark and through a fair bit of rain. It was tiring so I turned to John and Paul to help make the time pass with some dignity and maybe even a profound moment or two. I listened to a John Lennon compilation I had fashioned together a few years ago. On it, I put a few songs that were either great covers of his stuff or songs that had been written about him. Empty Garden by Elton John FLOORED me. After just having been on John Lennon’s doorstep, this song was so moving I became emotional while belting it unashamed. My body erupted in goosebumps and when this line came:

Who lived there?
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot,
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop.
Now we pray for rain, and with every drop that falls
We hear, we hear your name…..

…I bawled. Sang and bawled. It was such an honest and impossible to deny emotional moment for me. I feel as my fears shed with every victory, my body, heart, and mind feel things ten times stronger. And THAT in turn makes ME ten times stronger.

And next to me in the passenger seat, strapped in with his little doggy seatbelt, travel weary but absolutely game, my little companion. Never in the history of domesticated dogs has there been one who can take what comes at him with such a staggering lack of complaints like Lenny can. All he requires is my presence and good energy. If both those things are accounted for, he is game. He’ll sleep when he’s dead, let’s get this show on the road! Unreal. What a perfect animal for me.

Now as much as I love Manhattan, it does not begin to compare with how much Manhattan loves Lenny. Everyone from tourists to joggers to cops to firemen to construction workers to hipsters to the old immigrant women who ran the bagel shop and barely spoke english to the hotel maids to the Central Park tourists to the Handsome Cab drivers were genuinely taken with him. I lost count after 50 but I would wager there are at least 100 strangers in the Manhattan area with pictures of Lenny on their phones. No joke.The kid went viral. And posed for every one of them like a little pro. My hunch that he would be well received in NYC proved to be underestimated. I like to think that is a very very good sign of things to come.

The debacle at the Lennon memorial was especially unbelievable. It is a very popular tourist spot and I had chosen to park it with Lenny on a bench in front of the memorial, not as a marketing ploy, but because it was my birthday and the one thing I wanted to do for my birthday this year was pass some time in Strawberry Fields with Lenny. He was wearing his little red bow tie in honor of my birthday and this, coupled with what he already has going on, proved to be like a big electric shock to anyone who walked by.

In no time, we were literally surrounded by people taking pictures of him. At the absolute heat of the swarming, I counted 20 cameras. The group had to have been 50 deep at its height. It was almost overwhelming. One of the paparazzo offered me $500 for him right on the spot. Incredible. I felt like Kit Culkin.

After all this, we went to a dog friendly bar called VON in NoHo and the kid slept on my lap while I drank happy hour beer and wrote. I churned out 10 pages of handwritten shit while we were there. Haven’t written that much in a long time. Especially in one sitting. It felt really good. And really natural. I love that.

We  rounded out my birthday evening by buying a NY Pizza and taking it back to the room where I proceeded to get AH-Wasted off American beer and watch absolutely terrible movies (Vince Vaughn…please stop). It occurred to me that aside from the conversations I had during the day with people in the city about my dog, I had only communicated with Lenny for nearly two straight days. I had spent that whole time listening to good music, exploring, and occasionally telling my dog how good he was. And it felt great.

So yeah, I’m not going to have any kids to keep me company when I am silver haired…but that’s ok. I’m actually pretty neat-o all on my own. Even after Lenny has left me (knock on wood and please don’t let it be for at least another 14 years), I will still have music, the drink, and my penchant for getting up to my elbows in crazy ideas. The three of them together continue to be fruitful so I don’t have to be.

And that works for me. That will be just fine.

Call me old fashioned….

So I have this gig where I review bands when they play live.

For a long time it was a dream of mine to review concerts because I remember thinking when I was at them that it was as close as I was ever going to get to real magic. And I still feel that way. When you are at a concert, a good one, there is simply nothing more inspiring than seeing a musician or a group of musicians making music happen live. When you’re at a good show, you can actually witness someone get lost to making music happen. Its stunning. And even though I have absolutely no musical talent, I knew that music was going to be a big part of why I loved life for the entirety of it.

Here’s the rub: once I started writing about it, I started to get a little cynical. I didn’t mean to; in fact in the beginning I was even accused of being too complimentary all the time…by a world-class prick who shall remain nameless and who I unfortunately let have sex with me too many times. Like more than once. Jesus….I just shuddered. But as time went on and I attempted to break out of my comfort zone and get caught up in “hype” and “buzz” and go see bands that people were talking about, I realized that there was a HUGE thing missing from most of what is out there now. That thing: swagger. Call me old-fashioned, but what happened to the guy who can’t do ANYTHING but play music and get wasted? Seriously, what happened to that guy? Cause all I see is cocky, extroverted, hipster, image junkies who have been told one too many times that they are the “next big thing”. As soon as you tell someone with no talent that they are amazing, they will become absolutely horrible. And apparently, people will want to hear them butcher music in sell out crowds.

Now before I continue, let me tell you that whatever “way back machine” codger names you have to call me will pale in comparison with the vitriol my left brain has been torturing me with as I have attempted to stay current despite a crippling nausea at hearing the gutless and meaningless shit that has been dubbed the ever-popular and *cough* “valid” indie rock. But guys seriously…are you kidding me with this shit?

I will refrain from divulging who the band I saw tonight that inspired this post was because I want to separate my Bridget brain farts from my job that I take seriously for a site I respect. Not to mention my aforementioned lack of musical ability and how it makes me no real expert on the subject of how to make music. But I found myself numb from the waist down during the whole performance. And though I don’t think I was the only one, for the most part people seemed to be right wrapped up. What has happened to me? Why can’t I just dig on a good time where music is concerned? After all, I used to love the Spice Girls. And it sure wasn’t because of their swagger.

But here it is: when you taste the swagger, when you know it’s there and what it looks like and what it feels like, you can’t STAND sitting through something that doesn’t have it. And you can’t get behind it either. Cause really why bother? Honestly. If you know swagger exists, why would you settle for anything less? Boredom? Laziness? Too much Jager? What is it? I really want to know. What makes so many people settle for cardboard cutouts of prime rib when they could have the real thing?

I came home and shotgunned a few Old Milwaukees. And then I put on the Rolling Stones. Yeah ok, I sound old. Like Korea vet old. But fuck you guys, I know a big meaty feast when I see one. And I sure as hell ain’t interested in anything less. I want a band who has met the devil himself to write me a song about him and all he has done and call it “Sympathy”. I want tendons and bone and gristle. I want spit on the mic and sweat on the floor and blood on the guitar strings. I want my front man to be wearing the shirt that belonged to the groupie he just screwed and not an intentionally ironic Miami Vice jacket with scrunched sleeves. Don’t put me on, turn me on. THAT is rock n roll, kids.

Thank god for good beer and vinyl. And songs about the Devil sung by men who have actually met him. And brown sugar and midnight ramblers and king bees. Thank goodness for you.

Sincerely,

Warm blooded women everywhere.

He takes after his mother

Its funny when you live with an animal for a while, you start to adopt each others’ strange little habits. Mostly its the dog dissolving those of the human it is sharing space with. I used to work with dogs for a living as a daycare worker at the most popular and successful dog daycare in Calgary. We would get close to 40 dogs a day and each one of them came with a fully developed personality and a set of tendencies to go with them.

What became most interesting is getting to know their owners as they became more regular customers and drawing the line between the dog and their people. There were some that just weren’t a good match; either their owner bought them for the wrong reason or, in very rare cases, were emotionally unavailable and the dog became a crumbling mess of nerves that you couldn’t dig a personality out of with a shovel. But for the most part, these were pampered pets who were nurtured like little human individuals and as such, had adopted a great deal of the mannerisms of the people they lived with. It was comical. And at times, a little ridiculous.

You would think after viewing this on a daily basis would lead me to be able to see through this practice and allow my dog to grow into whoever he was destined to be. Well, for the most part I feel I have. The little bastard trumps me in most categories involving valour, courage, instinct, and most often social prowess and sex life. I also didn’t make him gay, though I have no problem with it. I did however give him his signature look with a pair of groomers clippers left over from my days as a dog barber and this look does complement my chosen propensity towards tour t-shirts and converse. People often say we look like we belong on a Fido commercial, a comment which all at once repulses me and delights me. A perverse fetish of mine, that repulsive delight thing. I digress…

Aside from his appearance and my hippy mother indulgence of all his bad habits and overall hatred of authority, I have done little to attach my beliefs or personality onto him. I am much too weary of myself to attempt to live with two of me. But as we went on our evening walk tonight, I saw that he may have picked up more from me than I thought.

We were taking our normal walk by the sea but due to daylight savings being but weeks away, we are losing more daylight every night and are now unable to make it all the way to our beach before sundown. So now we must turn around at Denman street and walk up Davie to get home. Usually when we take this route it means we are going to the pet store to get Lenny a refill of his “little breed” kibble, a practice which always results in Lennon getting a cookie from the lady at the till. The kid is exceptionally bright, something I didn’t expect from a Pomeranian due to years of small dog bigotry while rasing black labs, and he makes permanent note of every store in the west end that he has been successful at getting cookies from. Even if it just happens once.

So here we were, walking up Davie with no need for kibble. So we got to the pet store and he beelined for the door as always. I had to tell him “not tonight, dude” and pull him along. He fought me and dug his feet in to the sidewalk. I stopped and looked back. “Not tonight kid, let’s go”, I ventured as I gave him another yank. This time he begrudgingly came with me but walked sideways as his eyes stayed locked on the pet store door. It was like pulling a kid who’s having a tantrum through the mall, he was whining, trying to plant his feet, and longingly craning his neck to look in the pet store door which kept opening as people who apparently loved their dogs more than he thought I did exited with their pets.

It didn’t take long for mania to strike him. He turned on the leash, grabbing it in his mouth and thrashing it publicly as I attempted to pull him further up the sidewalk. This is something he does every now and then when he gets a little hot under the collar and grows tired of what I assume he thinks is a charade he allows by letting me leash him when he essentially thinks he is in charge, but today it was especially violent. His voice reached this fever pitch of hysteria that I had never heard. I finally had to yank the leash out of his mouth and give him our safety word for public tantrums “ENOUGH!!”. He stopped and with ears down he began to walk in the direction I wanted him to; this compliance was short-lived. He began getting overly meticulous about marking things on the way home. He knows this frustrates me and makes it more of a precious process when the walk has not gone to his liking. This is exhausting on a good day let alone directly following a public display such as the one we had just gone through.

I tried to get him moving but he was like a granite rock. I finally had enough and picked him up. You should have seen his face, like Hannibal Lecter if Dahmer took the last kidney at the Thanksgiving table. Madness. I carried him for a bit and then put him back down as I have found a short bout of humiliation usually buys me a few blocks of good behaviour. But not today. Now it seems he felt it was time to start plain ol’ getting into shit. He ate everything he could find off the ground: half eaten hot dog buns, used tissues, cigarette butts…seriously, cigarette butts? There is no way that tastes good. This was blind revenge. And suddenly I knew why, like I was looking in some kind of simian fun house mirror; he was having an addiction fit. The kid was addicted to the pet store cookie routine and I had brazenly denied him his fix.

How could a creature who constantly studies the world looking for opportunities for gratification not notice the similar traits in the human he lives with? How do I know he notices? Because the pet store wasn’t the only place he tried to enter on impulse…he also instinctively made a move to walk into both liquor stores we passed. Never got cookies at either of them…but his mommy did. Plenty of them. Oh yeah….we are fiends.

I remember shortly after I moved to Vancouver, I ran out of beer on a particularly grand party weekend. I decided to walk the several blocks to the neighborhood liquor store to restock for round two. But when I got there, I learned the hard and fast lesson learned at least three times by every new BC resident formerly from Alberta: these punk ass BC Liquor Stores are closed on Sundays. Mother. Fucker. Panic struck like a leather belt to the face. I can’t be dry for the remainder of the weekend. Oh god.

I scurried home and pulled through my cupboards looking for anything I could throw down the hatch so as not to lose my momentum. People were enjoying their forethought stashes in my living room and I was feeling the ugly tinny starkness of sobriety clawing back into me like a fucking tick. This, I’m afraid to say, brought out an animal in me that I seldomly care to admit pays rent in the dingiest corner suite of my brain. Edgy and desperate, I began making a shit mix out of the 1cm drippings left in each of the liquor bottles in our cupboard. The result tasted like the inside of a badger’s ass and subsequently made my mouth taste like I had tongued one all night. Madness. Kinda like eating cigarette butts off the ground in protest. Kinda.

So yeah…I made my kid into an addict for gratification at the hands of strangers for free cookies. Losing his cool is now an option to ensure he gets this taste. Incredible. I could have snapped him out of it I suppose. I could break the cycle. I could intervene. But I believe our legacy is not only going to be about adventure, impulse, affection, and rock n roll, but also about enabling. He leads me to the wine store judgement free, and I let him delight the pet store girl into giving him milk bones. And the bank security guard, the guy who runs the video store, and the lady in the motorized cart who hangs out outside the market, none of which he will let me pass by without stopping lest I endure a public nic fit that would make one of the Gallagher brothers blush.

What can I say, the kid takes after his mother. Bless him.