If I were Queen...

One True Sign of Summer...

Not buds on trees...not swimming pools opening...not the smell of freshly cut grass.
Nope, the true sign that summer is here:
Juliana Hatfield releases a new album!!!

Juliana Hatfield is one of those artists who has ALWAYS been a favourite of mine...but, in a slow-burning kinda-way.
I never realized how much I liked her until like, a year ago. And I've been buying her albums consistently since 1994!!!!
Maybe it's because her music isn't necessarily hard-wired to change the world. She's just this girl, who seems completely unaffected by her critical acclaim and her stint with indie-stardom in the mid-90's...she just ...writes.
And just...keeps on writing.
Her music is consistently good, I can throw on any one of her 8 or 9 albums...or any one of her 6 or 7 E.P.s and NEVER be disappointed.
She's great mp3-player music as well - slap on a pair of headphones with Juliana on the other side, and you can walk for hours...what seems like simple songs - are actually so simple you can apply them to any situation in your own life, creating that perfect little artist-listener relationship along the lines of "Oh my god, Juliana and I share the same life!" when in truth, she's just a really great song-writer.
I think the fact that she stuck it through and stayed true to her original vision when so many others who broke out onto the scene at the same time as her have not - make her legend of sorts.
Liz Phair certainly took the shitty-road out, sold her amazing song-writing skills short and was molded into something she is not by a greedy record company.
Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star...what the HELL ever happened to her? Sure, Mazzy Star never really spat albums out at a fast pace, but when Hope went solo in 2001 - I thought at LEAST this was the beginning of what was sure to be a lovely discography...and...nothing since.
Tanya Donelly...another one - while she hasn't fallen into the flat-lined void like so many others have, where is the studio work?
Elastica...why did we never get that solo Justine Frischmann record we all thought was coming...?
Donita Sparks of L7?? Where's the solo record we were promised?!?!
All of them hit their peak of fame around the same time Juliana did...1995 or so.
And all of them have all but disappeared.
Except Juliana.
She's still trucking it...averaging an album a year - a true working artist who appears to be in it for nothing more than the innate need to NOT work a 9 to 5 job - and the love of writing songs and throwing them together into an album.
Simple. Beautiful.
I chalk her in with that small handful of artists who make albums - albums that sound like the kind of albums THEY want to make - regardless of fame and fortune.
People like Hayden. Matthew Sweet. Tori Amos. Sinead O'Connor. PJ Harvey. Bjork. Prince.
I know it seems strange for some reason to compare Juliana Hatfield to all those folks - but I really think they share 3 very important traits:
1) They are prolific, non-stop song-writesr.
2) They are over-flowing with talent.
3) Their music is never influenced by what is in or current. They have a true artistic vision which isn't based on "what sells".
Sadly, that's a rare thing these days. How sad is that?
Even indie-bands feel like splashes in the pan anymore.
She also has her own record company now - Ye Olde Records - and you can order albums DIRECTLY from her site, which is nice.
While I'm not against downloading, I am TOTALLY not about shunning an artist and not paying for their work...as long as THEY are getting my money.
Long before Radiohead did the "pay what you want" thing with their In Rainbows album, Juliana was doing it.
When she released Made in China on her own label and website - she set up an ordering page - and let the buyer offer whatever they thought the album was worth.
I was taken aback.
Do I type in 1 penny and score a sweet deal?
That wouldn't be a very good fan, now would it?
It was so personal, and so genuine - and so Juliana - and so GENIUS (she probably solved the record company problem right then and there) I ordered the album and slapped down 20 bucks.
Why? Because I want it to work, the music is always worth it and frankly - it's something SHE made. She deserves the 20 bucks for putting it out there.
I wish every artist did this. Every artist SHOULD do this, because it's about "music" not about money. Not about a company.
We can be our own shippers and receivers now. We can be our own distrubution companies.
So it's nice to see - that in August - Juliana will be self-releasing yet another album - How to Walk Away.
Her music always strikes me as summer-music...so it's perfect that it's coming out in the middle of the great August haze...
Here's the tracklisting...I hope to GOD she tours...it's been far too long since she's stopped by to play some songs...

Juliana's new record, How To Walk Away,
will be released August 19th on Ye Olde Records

Track Listing:

1. The Fact Remains

2. Shining On

3. This Lonely Love

4. My Baby...

5. Just Lust

6. Now I'm Gone

7. Remember November

8. So Alone

9. Such A Beautiful Girl

10. Law Of Nature

Statement of the Decade.

Today I was at work and it was what I consider "one of those bitch-workin' days".
I had a stack of stuff to write that damn near touched the ceiling and more stuff coming to my desk, non-stop.
All of it had to be done by today.
I wrote. I typed. I processed. I filed. I wrote. I typed. I processed. I filed.
It was non-stop, stream-of-consciousness work, breathless, exhausting, continuous.
"Fuck," I said it aloud at one point, but no one in my office responded.
I wrote about Mother's Day and skin softeners, paint stores and marble dealers.
I wrote about hot tub sales, emergency plumbing services, restaurants and running shoes.
I wrote about cancer charities and juicers, garden waste and compost.
It was one of those Fridays that just seemed to go on forever. I'd glance at the clock, hoping it was over, hoping it was 4:50pm and it'd be time to go home, but - to my dismay: 1:02pm.
Still a long, long way to go until it was weekend time.
And then, I said it.
"If it weren't for weight watchers, I'd get drunk tonight."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
If.
It.
Weren't.
For.
Weight.
Watchers.
I'd.
Get.
Drunk.
Tonight.
That sentence, coming out of my mouth - on a Friday before the weekend - is so wrong, on so many levels, I can't even begin to count.
But I will.
A) Getting drunk because I am stressed out is never a good sign. Mental note to self.
B) Not allowing myself to get drunk because I've used up all my weight watchers points is something that still baffles me and I haven't completely come to terms with the fact that I'm being controlled by a Plan.
C) I'm in weight watchers.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I think Weight Watchers fucking ROCKS.
Seriously. I do.
In fact, I've learned so much about food and fibre and caloric intake these past few weeks since I joined, I may very well never look at food the same again.
It's a great excercise in discipline and learning to portion, take things in moderation - something I have, all my life, struggled with.
Rather than eat the entire pot of spaghetti, I only eat 1 cup.
Rather than drink the ENTIRE bottle of wine, I ration to one glass.
Moderation.
No - I think the WORLD should be on weight watchers - yes, I drank the purple kool-aid and I am a member of the cult.
What irks me, and the reason I'm mad at myself is because I was handed my dream weight on a silver platter last year when I had to drop an organ - something I highly recommend EVERYONE do.
Dropping my gall bladder like a hot potato was the best thing that ever happened to my body.
Sure I went through excruciating pain, sure I had a plastic drainage tube to suck the pus out of my insides hanging out of my side for a week and a half - but fuck it - when they pulled that sucker out and I finally got to rip off my clothes and hop in the bath tub...I was pleasantly surprised to discover I had lost about 30 spare pounds that I really had no use for anyway.
I kept the weight off all summer and into fall...but then...well, I just started to slip.
"Fuck it," I'd say. "I'm thin now, I can eat an extra bowl of pasta!"
"I can eat the whole bag of popcorn."
"Pass the Salt N Vinegar chips, please."
"A few extra table spoons of peanut butter at midnight never hurt anyone, right?"
I got pompous. I stuffed my face, quit excercising and ever so slowly, my love-handles, like a scorned lover, came back into my life to rub it in my face.
"Look whatchya DONE!" they hissed.
Thing is - I'm not "management material".
I never will be.
I'm a guy who needs instruction. Rules. Borders.
I'm a great follower.
I'm a lovely go-getter - if you tell me what to go and get.
Enter weight watchers into the equasion.
They tell me what I'm allowed to eat each week, each day - and I eat it.
I follow the rules.
So far - it's cost me nothing except a healthier flutter in the pit of my stomach - and 6.2 of those unwanted pounds.
But let's get back to what I said today at work:
"If it weren't for Weight Watchers, I'd get drunk tonight."
If someone told me, back when I was 20 - that those words would come out of my mouth, I'd never believe it.
"Nothing will stop ME from getting drunk EVER," I would have said.
But then I would have scratched my head, and wondered if I really would be such a party-pooping dud on a Friday night when I hit the big 3-0.
Well - the answer: Yes.
It hit me - just like that.
I'd rather spend my weight watchers points on crackers and salsa.
A cup of grapes.
An apple and a few cashews.
Fourteen cashews, to be exact - and yes - it is fucking skimpy as hell - but dammit I love cashews more than a beer.
I do.
It's just wild. The things we say that we never thought we'd say.
The thoughts we think that we'd never thought we'd think.
Perfectly okay present day - because it is where we are.
But when we juxtapose it to where we used to be, and think the way we used to think and look at ourselves THAT way...it's just...mind-boggling, the way we change, without really changing at all, but changing so absolutely...it's hard to tell when it happened.
Does that make any sense?
I guess not.
Regardless, it just threw me for a loop today, when I heard myself utter those words:
"If it weren't for weight watchers, I'd get drunk tonight."
I've heard a million people say similiar things, and all of them have always been older than me.
"I'll start my diet tomorrow. I have my weight watchers meeting tonight. How many points are in this salad dressing."
It was words that I am used to mothers and aunts speaking.
But it was me. Even though it didn't sound like me at all - I think the realization that it WAS me saying that, freaked me out, but not in a bad way.
Just in...one of those... "Wow..that's the statement of the decade" kind of ways.
Know what I mean?

Hearts and Farts and Wish Me good luck on my second ever weigh-in tomorrow morning at 8:30am...

Dan

For The Eclectic Cafe.

I sucked at University. Bad.
I can blame University, call it high-brow, call it the untouchable world of academic-snobbery, I can throw all that negative shit and heap it on in mounds and just say it was the snooty professors, the stuck up kids in my class - I can blame them and name them and judge them all I want - but truth is: I sucked.
I got shitty marks.
It was a total joke for me, an expensive joke - but a joke.
I loved the idea of being a Creative Writing student. Of being artsy fartsy.
Hanging out with Fancy People. The kind who wore black horned rimmed glasses. I wanted sooo much to be "the weird kid" who didn't fit in but was gloriously, awe-inspiringly talented.
I was never that kid.
I didn't see it this way at the time, or maybe I didn't want to, but I think I stuck out as the weird kid, not because I was weird at all - but because I was tragically, hopelessly, terminally plain. Which - at the time - was probably about the worst news you could have possibly given to me.
I tried too hard to be something I probably never would be - and this resulted in me turning in shitty work that sucked.
I tried too hard and every single person in my class was already "the weird kid". They had it down to a science. They had years on me that I'd never (no matter how many Violent Femmes albums I listened to) make up for missing.
Every day I walked into that class - it was like walking into the house that belonged to a group of friends who have been friends since birth.
I was an outsider - but not the way I wanted to be.
I wanted in, but I just didn't have the keys.
They all had years of writing and stacks of notebooks dating back from high school, notes and words etched out a million miles beyond anything I'd ever dreamed up when I was 16 or 17.
I was the normal kid. I had nothing on these kids. And I hated it.
So I wrote "shock fiction", I wrote about ass-fucking and rape and religious desecration.
"Ooooh, look how jaded and twisted he is.."
I wanted them to say that. But they never did.
I ripped off lines from songs I loved and handed them in as poems.
I would get C's, D's - but - I'd smile because they never did clue in that they were grading the lyrics of PJ Harvey and Sinead O'Connor.
Still - I wasn't really doing much to nurture myself.
I hated the ten cent words.
I hated the rules on art.
I didn't get why there had to be rules on art, why I had to pay 2 grand a year to sit in a room, in a circle with 12 other kids and read their stories and poems and then chat about them.
What qualified an "A" story and what qualified a "D" story?
Personal taste?
It was a piece of creativity as far as I saw it.
Even when I did get an A on a piece - I questioned it.
"It's not really an A, there's no such THING as an A. The the teacher just HAPPENED to like it."
I thought it was all a joke.
I didn't get why I had to read books and sonnets and historical poems and texts and then regurgitate the notes our professor dictated out to us back up in essay format for the final exam (which was usually worth 50 percent of our final mark).
Sometimes - I didn't care for the stories. The supposed classics. I found them boring.
I'd give them a D if I had to mark them.
But I had no choice. I had to take interest. I had to write about them with enthusiasm, like I loved them. I felt phoney. And it cost me money to do this.
I could think of a billion and one BETTER things to do with 2000 bucks.
But hey - to each his own.
It was me who sucked. My decision to go to a school that I hated - that's what sucked.
One professor - probably the only one I actually liked - encouraged us to go to poetry readings - open mics - and read our material for an audience, out in the city - in front of OTHER poets - real poets - people who were doing it every single day, not just taking a class on it. Not just paying to take a class on it.
I went one night, notebook in hand, and I sat.
The Eclectic Cafe. I'd been a few times before in high school, but never for a poetry night - never with the possibility that I might get up and read something I wrote.
I just sat and listened. And I was lost.
Dumbfounded.
I didn't get it. It was too high brow. It was over my head.
It was too smart for me - but it was too...something else.
It hurt my ego because I knew - I KNEW - I would NEVER be able to write those words, draw those lines, metaphors - I'd never be capable of bringing something full circle and still keep up with the motiff in a clever and seemingly uncalculated way.
Never.
I was crushed. I sat quietly all night and slipped out the back door - my heart pounding like a guy at a karaoke bar who has his name in for the next song and he wants to leave before the DJ spots him.
"Don't let them see me with my notebook, please don't let them see me with my notebook."
The poems sounded like the poems I wanted to write - like the poems I wrote in my head but for some reason - could not put on paper.
To this day - I don't even know what a poem is.
I took offense to this. Stupid, I know.
This was a case of ego off a leash - something I'm guilty of to this day.
Those other poets all fit in to the scene I so desperately wanted to be a part of. They got a response. Their writing was everything I wanted mine to be and mine was nothing like it - and I immediately judged them and dismissed them as assholes.
Dismissed them as snobby bitches.
You know that theory, about the people who protest porn? They usually have a big collection stashed under their bed?
Or the politician who bashes gay people..? He usually ends up arrested in the men's room of an airport restroom.
Well, I was pointing the finger at all the supposedly snobby bitches for reasons that boiled down to plain old catty and ugly jealousy.
I was in turn, a snobby bitch.
When I got home that night, I sprawled out on my floor, on my stomach with my Hilroy notebook infront of me and wrote out a question:
"What makes you think that you're any better than I am?"
It was posed at no one. And everyone.
In retrospect, it should have asked: "Why do you think you suck so bad?" or maybe even: "Why are you such a touchie-little-brat?"
But - it didn't.
It just asked - what makes YOU think that YOU are any BETTER than I am?
I don't know if anyone thought they were any better. I don't even know if they knew who I was at all.
But it's what I wrote.
I stared at the words, imagined telling them all off - because I was angry that they were better. I wanted them gone.
And I wanted them to be my best friends.
That week - I went to my Creative Writing workshop class and one kid - a talented but rather pompous writer, tossed a poem I wrote at me - and told me I had insulted him.
He was insulted by what he read on paper.
Insulted.
I was crushed and furious.
"How can you be insulted? How do my words INSULT you?" I wanted to scream, but of course, I didn't.
I sat there, and listened to him tell me my meter was off.
My words rhymed.
"Good poetry is not supposed to have words that rhyme."
"It was vulgar."
"It was stupid and pointless."
"Insulting."
No matter what kind of perspective I had back then, he was mean.
His words broke me.
I never went back to that class again and I kissed all of University goodbye shortly after that.
It wasn't that I was so talented, I was misunderstood.
I would have loved that.
Truth was - I had no fucking idea how to write the way I wanted to write.
I knew how I wanted to sound, but had no idea how to make it fit in with everyone else. That was probably my mistake.
I wanted to "stand out like everyone else".
It was all insecurity and over-defensiveness.
I was far too influenced. In an ironic way, I had too much of what I wanted.
I wanted to not fit in, and - mission accomplished.
But it sucked.
My friends and I continued to go back to the Eclectic Cafe and once in a blue moon, we'd happen to walk in during a hushed and quiet poetry reading.
The snotty bitches with funky artsy-hair and horned rimmed glasses mingled with each other, black poetry books in hands, smoke from skinny cigars mixed with the smell of nag champa incense and clouds of patchouli, and my friends and I - we'd get drunk and crack jokes about how stupid and ridiculous they all were.
How absurd and pretentious the entire scene was.
It made me feel better. I loved those nights at the Eclectic.
But in truth, they weren't stupid, those poets.
I envied them - and envy is ugly. It seriously hurts!
I was blind with jealousy.
I wanted to be up there, smoking skinny cigars, smelling like patchouli, flipping through a little black book of poetic gold and wowing the crowd with my words, while they sipped black coffee - laughing HARD at my smart, punchy jokes, nodding in agreement, lips pursed, shaking their heads in amazement, while the common folk sat, baffled, unable to wrap their small minds around my magic.
I was, in fact - one of the ones who didn't get the high brow jokes.
I still don't.
But - I don't hate the snotty writers and poets or the University students who I love to call pretentious and blame my academic failure on.
I don't hate them at all.
I feel bad for bad mouthing them, but I kind of have to admit, it was fun as hell laughing at them and they probably inspired me more than anyone else - ever.
Turns out Eclectic Cafe became Phog Lounge which is the place I always go to read poetry.
Maybe, hopefully - someone stares at me up there on stage and laughs at me, cracking jokes, slamming me, dismissing me as a pretentious doorknob who thinks he's the shit even though he is so far from it.
I guess it just means I'd be doing something right.
And so are they.
I'll never be a really super cool, literate writer who can drop obscure references and keep a meter balanced out for an entire poem.
It won't happen. To pretend I can do that would be a joke.
Last night I was talking on the phone with a writer for a local magazine who is doing a story on a few of my pieces.
He also read for me the work of another local poet, who he is also covering and my fingers turned to fists and I felt my face go red.
They were breath-takingly, mind-blowingly beautiful, the words he read.
They knocked the wind out of me.
I was jealous, yet again. Defensive.
And I seriously had to remind myself - that it's completely okay to like someone else's writing, to be blown away by it and that even though about 11 years have gone by - not a whole hell of a lot has changed.
I still fit in and I still stand out - shoulder to shoulder with all those "supposedly snobby bitches".
And it's those supposedly snotty bitches who have inspired me to write over the years more than anyone.
Well, them - and my friends.

For the Eclectic Cafe
March, 1997

Who said that you
are any better
than I am?

So maybe I can't dissect
bits of local art
and look stylish
in horned rimmed glasses
and have friends in punk bands
with a history of former members
who died of suicide.

And social change
isn't group therapy
for me the way
it is for you

and there is no such thing
as being a vegetarian
or vampires

and Goth music is only disco
wearing black lipstick
and leather
instead of flares and glitter

and lemme guess?
you're a fuckin' genius too,
right?
And you're very in touch
with yourself and every single
atom
of each and every
piece of mother earth-toned
element you
surround yourself with.

and you're a painter
and a writer
in a band
in a bar
and you're bisexual and open minded
dressed in black
gloves and beret

and no one knows who your favourite
singer is
because she hasn't sold out
to
mainstream media

and Tommy Hilfiger
is over priced
and poetry is being murdered
and photography is real
but only if it's
black and white

a pop song isn't art
unless it's meant as a statement
for pop art like Warhol
but no one knows
Andy

oh yeah:
and NIN
and KMFDM
and TRI
and CKY

don't know jack and Jill
about techno
or trance
and you've been to Europe
or you're going there
*sigh*
someday.

for now you keep writing
and your coffee stays
as black as the sunglasses
you put on at night

and jocks are stupid
and Liz Phair sold out

and piercings are really cool
"but only because he had them
before anyone else did,"

not many people smoke cigars anymore
but you do

and your hair isn't black
it's a "deepest plumb"
and your horned-rimmed lovelies
sliding down the bridge
of your nostril flared nose
are non-prescription
but no one need know.

And the notes that you scratch
in your book of poetic prose
are really lists of CDs and
groceries to buy

and that coffee...
that coffee was bought
at a god damned A&P

that you drink
while you think
of how much you hate
this city
indeed
in bursts
in fury

in a coffee shop
in a city...

you're so beautiful
I love you
and...

I love you.

-----------

World in Flames - One Year Later

It's hard to believe one year ago today - our house was pretty much destroyed by a horrific and deadly fire.
It feels like a hell of a lot more time has gone by than just one year.
Mind you - I remember it perfectly.
I went to sleep that night - April 17th - around midnight. I put on Feist's Let It Die CD.
I was uneasy. This isn't just hindsight, I was uneasy all night. I couldn't sleep.
Wayne came to bed around 1pm.
I stared at the ceiling, blinking, wondering why it was I couldn't sleep.
My heart was racing.
Finally, I slipped out of consciousness and began having horrible nightmares.
But they were the kind of half-awake/half-asleep, feverish, lucid nightmares.
I dreamed I was running as fast as I could through an old hotel - down the hallway, all the doors were shut tight, but I could hear screaming noises coming out of each one, evacuation sirens were blazing in my ears. I knew something very, very bad was happening behind each door of each hotel room, and I had to get out.
Then slowly, something started to pull me out of sleep.
My eyes opened, and I could still hear the screams, I could still hear emergency panic attack alarms going off...but they were muffled, the way they were in my dream, as if they were behind closed doors.
I listened closer and could hear voices through the wall.
Talking.
Yelling.
Screaming.
I heard the old man who lived in the unit that was attached to ours scream at the top of his 91 year old lungs:
"For God's sake - GET DOWN!"
I listened, not fully awake, my heart pounding out of my chest, my whole body shaking in my bed.
And that was when we heard the sound.
*BANG!*
It shook the foundation of our house, as if Superman himself SLAMMED our front door -hard enough to tear it right off its hinges.
Wayne's eyes opened, but he was still groggy.
"Wayne?" I asked, "Is something going on next door?"
I remember my voice shaking when I asked that.
They were a very elderly couple and I imagined perhaps it was an ambulance with paramedics in there to take the old lady away for the final time.
Wayne cocked his ear to the wall. It was like...we were hearing things, but we weren't. I questioned if I was even still having a nightmare. My heart was banging, like I was being punched in the chest.
"I'm going to go downstairs and check," I said.
I grabbed a bath robe, threw on a pair of jeans and walked downstairs.
Our house was quiet. Dark.
Calm. Peaceful.
I opened my front door - and it was like opening the door to hell.
The smell of toxic ...chemical...death - hit me square in the face.
I always assumed housefires smelled like campfires.
They don't. They are a poisonous smell I hope I never have to experience ever again.
Smoke was pouring out of our neighbor's unit - the unit that was attached to ours.
My neighbour who lived on the OTHER side of the burning unit was out already.
I stared, blinking - trying to process what the fuck was going on.
"Can you...HELP??" I remember him saying.
I darted inside and grabbed my shoes.
He kicked the door to the burning house and it creaked.
He kicked it again and the door SPRANG open.
At this point, I was prepared to run in as well.
I assumed it could be just a couch fire. Under control. Not yet at castastrophy level.
I remember looking inside - and seeing billows of smoke - like black, shadowy ghosts, creeping down the stairs.
The house was quiet.
Frighteningly quiet.
Just smoke. Pouring out.
Not a sound. Silent.
Pitch black.
Heat was pouring out and I knew just as he knew - there was no going in there.
I couldn't do it.
I had no idea where the fire was.
I remember looking at my neighbour who kicked the door down and thinking in my head: "Fuck no. Fuck no. Fuck no."
There was just no going in.
I remember him saying: "I can't hear them ...they won't answer me."
And, I remember saying: "Because they're dead."
I said it aloud, and I didn't mean to. It was cold of me.
But it just seemed logical. I looked at that house and I couldn't wrap my head around the possibility that ANYONE - let alone 85 and 90 year olds - could survive in there for more than 3 minutes.
It was smoke as black and as thick as tar.
I ran back into my house, Wayne was getting up - still upstairs.
"What's going on?" he called.
"The house is on fire."
Silence.
Saying the words made my head spin, I thought I was going to faint.
And that was when smoke started to pour out of every single electrical outlet, vent, hole, crevice. Our house was being filled - like someone dropped a fog machine in our house and switched it to "high".
I raced around the house - looking for Pluto. I couldn't find her. I was holding her jar of treats while the smoke crept up all around me and and I was shaking it, making it rattle - a sound she usually runs to - and I was trying to sound happy, trying to remind myself that cats can detect panic in our voices.
I went into the back room, which over-looked our backyard, and that was when I saw it.
Our backyard was set aglow. The glow of fire - the same glow I associated with happy campfires and tiki torches.
Except it was coming from my neighbours house. It was wrong.
Red flames - they were red - were shooting out of the window just inches from ours.
It was like a ceramic oven inside their home.
I immediately thought of our firewalls...and how our attic didn't have any.
This was going to be a disaster.
We had to find Pluto - and get out. And that was all we could do.
I knew right then - I would die in this house if I couldn't find Pluto.
I know that sounds ridiculous - but I stand by that.
I pictured her hidden somewhere, terrified, and I couldn't leave. The firemen would have to come into that house and drag me out kicking and screaming - and that was that.
I raced upstairs, screaming now for Pluto - not caring if panic was heard in my voice.
I got to our bedroom, lifted the bed - and out she ran.
Under our bed was thick, milky smoke, swimming its way across our floor.
In the middle of the smoke, was the perfectly round shape of Pluto.
She was surrounded by smoke - so much so her body left an imprint in it.
She raced under the bed in our spare room - at which point Wayne came bursting upstairs.
"She's under that bed!" I yelled and I ran downstairs, tore open our storage closet door - we were now surrounded by smoke and I was beginning to cough - and found her carrying case.
Wayne came down, holding a shaken Pluto and we put her in the box.
"What the fuck is going on?" I remember asking.
My head was spinning. It was too much adrenaline.
Safe in her box box, we fled from our house and a gigantic cloud of smoke followed us out.
And that was how it went down.
The old man died in the house that night and the old lady joined him a few months later.
His screams - his final screams that I heard in my dreams - my nightmares - and through the wall - is what I think saved our lives.
Had we been awakened by smoke - if we woke up at all - we would not have been so lucky.
I wrote a poem about the night - and about how it felt to wake up to the sounds of a man dying...maybe it's selfish to think this, but perhaps his very last purpose on this planet was to save our lives.

So this one is dedicated to Innes Johnson.

beacon at night


so it all went down
and the neighbors stood by
and we stared at the houses
with smoke in our eyes
and I thought:
this is me, alive,
3 decades gone by -
a cat in a box
and wayne at my side

so i breathed in the smoke
and i smelled the night sky,
felt fumes in my lungs,
got high
on my life
and the smoke from my house
that was burning in flame
like a movie on pause
slow motion, freeze frame.

i heard the old man
cry out in the night
cry out for his wife
and cry out for his life,
heard his voice through the
wall
like a beacon at night
calling out to the sleepers
to run and take flight
from our homes
2am
with a fog rolling in
boiling up from the vents
burning embers within
the pit of our home
in the walls
in the floors
in the celings
and windows
through
breeze ways
and doors

and the smell
matched the rhythm
of death, in a home
and voices screamed songs
in chaotic tones
and each
last
man
standing
stood humbled
alone,

hell fire
damnation
INFERNO
Brimstone.

and the fire cracked
the walls,
cracked the windows
and floors;

and the axes broke the
roof
and smoke detectors
roared
in my ears
like the ocean
or a starry night
sky
that was blurred
by the burning
of the tears in my eyes.

so i took a deep breath
and i smelled the night sky
felt the fumes in my lungs
and got high on my life
and thought
this is me:
alive,
3 decades gone by -

a cat in a box
wayne
at my side

and some old guy's
cracked voice,

calling out

in the night,

calling out to his wife
calling out for his life

like a sandman
who came
to lay
claim
in
the
night
to wake us
from
sleep,
and blow smoke in our
eyes

and burn holes
through the walls
so we'd run
and take flight

to watch

our lives
burn,

like a beacon,

at night.

---------------

Elderly man dies in house fire, wife critical
Chris Thompson, Windsor Star
Published: Wednesday, April 18, 2007

An elderly man is dead and his wife is in critical condition after a fire at a Walkerville row house early this morning.

Windsor Fire Chief Fire Prevention Officer Lee Tome said fire crews were called to the older row house at 1222 Argyle Rd. at around 2 a.m. and found heavy smoke billowing out from the front of the building.

Firefighters entered the home and brought some of the blaze under control.
A 91-year-old man was removed from the home by firefighters and taken to hospital where he was pronounced dead.

His 85-year-old wife was also found in the home and is in critical condition. Doctors are considering transferring her to Detroit Receiving Hospital.

The fire spread through a common attic with neighbouring houses, Tome said, and the other units sustained smoke and water damage.

"Firefighters had to cut through the roof," said Tome.

An investigator from the office of the Ontario Fire Marshal is en route to Windsor from Midhurst to investigate.

Residents are not being allowed to return to their units at 1216, 1218, 1220, 1224, or 1226 Argyle, Tome said.

A damage estimated has not yet been made, he said.

The identities of the victims are not being released pending notification of next-of-kin, Tome said.

The Monsters in the Closet.

"Well, let me put it to you this way. There's A's and there's B's. The A's are guys like me, the B's are homosexual faggots with dirt on their fingernails that transmit diseases."
Tom Lukiwski, Tory MP for Regina-Lumsden-Lake Centre said that in 1991.
The true North strong and free!
Sure. He said it seventeen years ago. But he said it.
The tape was found, and he was called out on it.
NDP Leader Jack Layton suggested our god-awful Prime Minister Stephie Harper follow the "precedent" he set in ejecting Lukiwski's predecessor in the riding. Harper, then leader of the Canadian Alliance, ousted MP Larry Spencer from the caucus in 2003when Spencer suggested homosexuality should be made illegal again.
Nice eh?
So...of course...seventeen years ago or not - it came out of his mouth - and I for one, wanted to hear what he had to say for himself.
(begin playing violin music here)
"I just want to publicly say that I am truly, truly sorry. I'm ashamed for the comments. If I could take those comments back, I would. I would give anything in the world to take those comments back. They do not reflect the type of person that I am. I do not believe in the type of comments that I made. I do not believe the context behind those comments. I can only say that on behalf of myself, my family, my children, I am sorry. I am ashamed and I wish those comments were never made.I have no prejudice against gay people whatsoever. I mean those comments do not reflect the type of person I am and I'm very, very sorry."
Sure. It was 17 years ago.
But - in 2005 - only 3 very short years ago - when "Same Sex Marriage" became legal in Canada - Mr.Lukiwski was among the MAJORITY of Conservative MP's who OPPOSED IT.
Voted against it.
I know people say stupid things.
I say stupid shit all the time. I can easily forgive and forget.
But...you know, the fact that he voted AGAINST same-sex marriage - really makes that apology hard to stomach.
He's homophobic. He was against gay marriage. He uses the word "faggot". Associates "disease" with queers. And his "A" type and "B" type of "guy" he speaks of is pretty much code for "Gays equal second classs citizens."
Strip him. Sorry. An apology doesn't cut it.
You're fucking fired. You can't say shit like that and then vote AGAINST gay marriage and then say: "I didn't mean it when I said 'faggot'."
Yes you did.
Yes you fucking did.
Apology NOT accepted.
Republican Senator Sally Kern also had some interesting quotes about the "B" class kind of people.
"Studies show, no society that has totally embraced homosexuality has lasted for more than, you know, a few decades. I honestly think it’s the biggest threat our nation has, even more so than terrorism or Islam. . .They want to get them into the government schools so they can indoctrinate them . . . They are going after our young children, as young as two years of age, to try to teach them that the gay lifestyle is acceptible. We have the gay-straight alliance coming into our schools. . .One of my colleagues said We don’t have a gay problem in our community… well you know what, that is so dumb. If you have cancer in your little toe, do you just say that I’m going to forget about it since the rest of you is fine? It spreads! This stuff is deadly and it is spreading. It will destroy our young people and it will destroy this nation."
She just compared gays to Cancer. Terrorists. She also compared Islam to terrorism too.
I'm all for free speech. I am. But how is it - LEADERS of COUNTRIES are allowed to say this fucking shit and NOT be fired??
I will RALLY with her for her right to say these kinds of things. Freedom of speech is a necessity.
But - homophobia has NO PLACE in legislature. She is comparing a demographic - a PORTION of the population she is supposed to represent - to CANCER.
"Worse than terrorists."
Now, I know a drag queen on the rag can be a frightening thing - but come on! We're not blowing up buildings here.
Here's my wish.
My number one wish.
I wish people like the Zombies at the Windsor Christian Fellowship, dick heads like Tory MP Tom Lukiwski, idiotic homophobic senators like Sally Kern - would just "come out" and SAY what they think should be done about this "cancer".
This "disease-spreading, cancer" that our countries are plagued with.
Make it illegal?
Send gays to prison? Concentration camps? Kill them?
Ship them off to an island?
See - there's a lot of singing and dancing around the issue.
They all want to say how "wrong and vile and disgusting" it is...but why is it no one ever proposes what we should DO about it?
If I had one question to ask a homophobe with some power - that would be my question.
"You clearly believe homosexualty is a PROBLEM we are plagued with. What do you propose we do about it? Force them into de-programming? Euthanize them? Refuse them jobs? Housing? Loans? Hope they die out? Kill them? Enslave them? Put them to work so we can at least squeeze some "good" out of them? WHAT? What do you PROPOSE we do with this EVIL that is slowly infiltrating society - because if gays - as you say - are a BIGGER threat than TERRORISTS...well...perhaps they should all be behind bars or put to death. So what do we do with them? What? What do you WANT to do with them -what would YOU do with them, if you had your way? What would you do with this cancer?"
They are all such big, bible-thumping do-gooders - but what kind of monsters are lurking under all this supposed "Christian" talk?
Take off the fucking masks, you assholes.
I dare you.
Show us what you really think.

MY SPACE...in YOUR FACE (book).

It's pretty insane the way technology changes our language.
Think about it: In 1984 - if someone said - "I am going to burn you a cd" - this statement would make absolutely ZERO sense.
What is a "cd"...why do you want to set it on fire...and...how are you going to dedicate this burning ..."cd"... you speak of...to me? Is this like a ...sacrifice...a burned offering or something...?
I often hear people say: "I'll facebook you!" or "I got myspaced by an old friend the other day..."
It's become a VERB for crying out loud!!!
I have a myspace AND a facebook page...and I have mixed feelings about them to this day.
The sad thing is - I think I have become TOO reliant on it, at least my facebook.
It's the best networking system out there. I no longer have to ask people (who I have not seen in person for over a decade) what they've been up to.
I can just type their name in and read all about it - usually illustrated play-by-play with drunken party pics.
Yet it's still awkward.
A few days ago I was grocery shopping - bright and early Saturday morning.
I absolutely ADORE grocery shopping. Seriously.
I have to be alone though. I don't want anyone talking to me.
I'm a "read-the-labels-on-the-cans" kinda guy. Then after I read the label, I stare into space for a moment or two, debating on whether or not I should buy it.
Annoying as fuck. Which is why I choose to go alone.
Anyway, I bumped into this chick who I hadn't seen since high school.
We are, of course - Facebook friends, so I've spent hours snooping her pictures, reading her comments on walls.
Even though we hadn't uttered a WORD to each other in 12 years - I knew she had a baby, got married, worked in a doctor's office at reception, has a cute orange and white cat named "louie" - loves to party at Dean Martini's - was there 3 nights prior, actually - she wore a beautiful black dress - and she is planning to attend the Feist show coming up April 10th.
"So.." I asked. "Whatcha been up to?"
Facebook is SERIOUSLY our Big Brother, self-created.
It is our hidden video camera in every corner of the world - a people processor, organizing data and profiles for the world's viewing pleasure.
You can barely go to a bar any more, without seeing a table of people - snapping pictures of each other on their cell phones, followed by the often-heard statement: "Oh - this one is SOOOOOO gonna go on Facebook tomorrow..."
My Myspace page, while it still exists - is defunct. You can check it out here.
The only reason it still exists at all - is because it is IMPOSSIBLE to delete it.
Seriously.
There is a button you can click - which says you will be sent an email with instructions on how to permanently delete your myspace account - but the email never arrives.
So - I wiped myself as clean as I could from the page. Deleted all my friends.
Yet there it STILL sits - online, after so many attempts to cancel it - and so many months with ZERO activity.
My facebook account...I've toned that down as well.
Facebook = Big Brother.
Our own all-seeing eye in the sky.
Hell - this blog is a part of it!
Why am I posting all this shit about myself on here? Wouldn't a fucking diary suffice?
No.
It's all one big reality tv show...which we can tune into 24-7 on our computers.
Information we volunteer to the public.
I toned down my facebook because I realized I had everything on there.
Where I work...where I live...my age...birth date.
My plans - where I was planning to attend - they were even up there.
I was tempted to just do a mind-fuck thing and pull out of facebook completely, delete the account.
Sad thing is - I'm not sure I could survive without facebook.
I network with people on there.
"who's going to such-and-such on Friday night?"
"What is everyone DOING tonight?"
I know, I know...wouldn't EMAIL do this.
Well, no one "emails" anymore.
They just "Facebook".
Email is for old farts.
Myself included. And I'm only fucking THIRTY!!!
While Myspace won the award for "most annoying" sites to load (the music, the tacky graphics, the HOURS certain pages took to load because they were SO obscenely souped up) - it did win points for originality.
You could personalize a myspace all to hell. It was an ego maniac's dream come true!
Facebook - while an infinite times more convenient and user friendly - gets nicked on points because it is just SO utterly fucking invasive.
If someone so much as FARTS on Facebook - everyone who is remotely related to that person gets an update in their news feed.
"Kelley had cereal for breakfast!"
"Jamie just took a shit and had to flush twice!"
"Ryan ate a fucking taco and is now gearing up for a cup of green fucking tea!"
It's ridiculous.
But - it's all info we are offering.
Right now - my facebook status states "Dan is Patti Smith."
It's not personal, really - but it's fucking weird.
Why did I feel the need to put that down?
I have no idea. But there it is.
Devour it, Facebookies.
It's strange. Our lives are on display more than ever.
A colleague and friend of mine recently published something on her blog.
It's JUST a blog, right?
It's not like anyone READS our ramblings.
Oh they do.
And she toned it down.
She didn't HAVE to...but shit...DID she?
Could someone use what we say on here as a weapon against us?
Sue us for slander?
Defamation?
But...but...free speech.
I can't imagine GROWING UP on myspace and facebook. These are still relatively novel to me...the "internet" itself - I only started using it when I went to University...I was 19 years old.
But now - 10 years olds are on myspace and facebook and msn.
Is it a bad thing...?
I have no idea.
No clue.
But...it's information that we're offering - free of charge - and posting online.
I forget this sometimes.
Anyway, that being said - I'm off to go "download" some "mp3s", "surf" the "net" and read some more "blogs".
Hm.
It certainly ISN'T 1984 anymore is it?
Or wait a minute...IS it?

Ducks: They Get NO Respect!!

1986 was the year I "got cable". Well - my parents "got cable".
I was 9.
But still. A whole new WORLD opened up to me. Movies! Movies! Movies! All the movies I daydreamed about while browsing video stores (we STILL didn't have a VCR) or salivated at while reading the movie-section in the paper (yes - back then, they printed FULL MOVIE POSTERS in the paper!) were all, suddenly on my television in full, vivid, living colour.
Getting cable was like hitting the jackpot.
I was amazed.
I never cared much for actual t.v.
But the movie channel - I was glued.
I was particularily excited about one film - Howard the Duck.
I saw zillions of trailers when it was out at the theatre, and I spent many an hour, staring at the movie poster that I cut out from the newspaper.
It was just "one of those movies" - my parents never got around to taking me to see it at the theatre.
I know, poor me. I had a rough childhood.
Regardless - it was making its big debut on the movie channel, so I was TOTALLY geeked about it.
I watched it. And fell in love.
With the movie. The soundtrack. The Duck.
And Lea Thompson.
Seriously. Yeah, I had the little gay bug ticking away like a time bomb in my stomach - but let me tell you - the fire that burned in me for Lea Thompson was hotter than ANYTHING that any beefy, ripped, muscley athletic, soccer-playing, shaggy-haired, closeted-frat-boy could EVER ignite.
That COULD be a BIT of an embelishment, but fuck it.
Point is - I seriously had the hots for Lea Thompson - even moreso in this movie because she was the lead singer for a chick-rock band called Cherry Bomb.
And she ACTUALLY sang!!! Even at that early age - I was all about chicks who rocked.
My room was plastered with pin-ups of every chick-rocker imaginable.
I have NEVER forgotten the tune of "Hunger City" - the song Lea Thompson sings in that dingy punk-metal bar when Howard first makes his journey to earth.
I had hearts reflecting in my nine year old eyes.
She wrapped up everything I love about Lita Ford, Joan Jett and Susanna Hoffs.
*Sigh*
"I love you, Lea Thompson."
I watched this movie over and over that summer - in 1986.
I probably saw it 40 times.
No lie.
Every damn day it was on, I was glued.
My dad was so sick of it - but I was hooked - when all else failed - Howard the Duck was on - and each time I saw it, it was like I was watching it for the first time.
To this day - I could probably recite the film, word-for-word.
Anyway, I was DVD-shopping a few weeks ago and it hit me:
Perhaps that small empty, hollow feeling in my stomach that I've been experiencing since I was 11 - is NOT due to the fact that I'm a faithless heathen who is CONSTANTLY living with a severe case of the munchies - but - it is because I do NOT have Howard the Duck in my movie collection.
Of course - the store didn't have a copy in stock - so I decided to special order it.
I was stunned by what the sales dude said.
"No, that's not out on DVD. And it will NEVER be out on DVD."
"What do you mean, 'never'??" I asked, slightly annoyed at his boldness to make such a finalized statement about a movie I held so dear to my childhood.
"I mean," He sniffed in his indie-movie-boy-expert way, "It's NEVER going to be released on DVD."
I wanted to get all "Bette Midler" on his ass - like that big monologue she gives to Ben Stiller in the movie Stella...you know the scene?
"Oh, I know you," I wanted to say - walking towards him defiantly as he backed up, scared. "I used to work in a video store too! I used to think I was the end-all master of the motion picture...thinking that if it came out of my mouth, it must be the authority - GOSPEL, because I work at a video store. How DARE you say "never"..? How DARE YOU?"
I'd pause, for dramatic effect and point my finger in his face.
"Oh yes," and I'd make a little "ttst" sound.
"Oh boy, do I know you. I used to be you. So don't you DARE say 'never' to me!"
Of course, I didnt' say this.
I just drove home and went on amazon.com to order the movie myself, assuming he was wrong.
Turns out - George Lucas has DISOWNED the film!!!
He has ZERO plans of EVER releasing it on DVD!!
SERIOUSLY.
ZERO PLANS.
"The little fucker was right," I said aloud to my computer.
"What did you say?" Life Partner called from downstairs.
"Nothing," I replied, sadly.
Silence in the house. I stared at my computer screen.
Now seriously.
This movie HAS to have a cult following.
Lea Thompson. Tim Robbins. Jeffrey Jones (aka - Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller).
How can one go wrong?
George Lucas produced!
And the band - Cherry Bomb.
Check the credits:
Lead vocals: Lea Thompson
Guitar - Joe Walsh (of the Eagles!!!)
Synthesizer - Thomas Dolby (yes - the "She Blinded Me With Science" guy!!)
Background vocals: GEORGE CLINTON! of Parliament!!!!
For real! That - if nothing else - is a rock band SUPERGROUP of pop culture collisions!!! HIGH IMPACT!!!
Little known fact - Tori Amos SERIOUSLY auditioned for the role of the metal-head singer that Lea Thompson already had in the bag.
Can you imagine? Now THAT would have been classic.
But - perhaps not as magic.
Anyway, it's been about TWENTY-TWO years (holy FUCK!) since I've seen this movie - and it's shocking how often I STILL think of it.
That says something.
But I'm stunned...and SPEECHLESS (but not blogless) - that out of all the pieces of crap out there - this flick was so weird, and so thoroughly entertaining...and is associated with so many recognizable names - I just cannot understand WHY it's not given a DVD release.
Seriously? What movie in this day and age is SHUNNED so badly - it's DOOMED to NEVER EVER be seen AGAIN by ANYONE.
There's a whole population of movie geeks out there who have NEVER experienced the GLORY of Howard the Duck! That's CRIMINAL!
So who's with me here on starting a petition to get George Lucas to release this flick?
He made enough money on Star Wars - he can throw the geeky little cult-followers a bone - er - a Duck, can't he?
Come ON George!
RELEASE...THE DUCK!!!!

Chant with me folks - get out your guitars, shake your tambourines, raise your fists in DEFIANCE and BLOW your clarinets:

"We want Howard!...Release the Duck!...We want Howard!...Release the Duck!...We want Howard..."

Wanna See Windsor Die? Let's Bring the Prohibition BACK!

I read today in the Star that the Middlesex-London Health Unit has voted to lobby to raise the drinking age from 19 to good ole 21 in Ontario.
The magic fucking number.
It's part of a six-point plan that also includes stricter advertising rules and reducing the legal blood alcohol concentration from 0.08 per cent to 0.05 per cent.
I'm all for stricter advertising rules.
Let's not encourage people to go out and get shit faced on 10 cent drafts. Fine.
Not a problem.
And yeah - let's reduce the legal blood alcohol limit from 0.08 down to 0.05 percent.
We shouldn't be driving drunk anyway.
Of course - if they REALLY wanted to stop drinking and driving, they'd set up a ride program at the downtown parking garages every Friday and Saturday night - no one leaves without blowing the legal limit. Problem solved.
But, that wouldn't be good for our downtown tourism scene would it?
Neither would raising the legal drinking age.
It would fucking kill us.
Not that we need much help - but hey - thanks for the effort Middlesex-London Health Unit! Kick us while we're down.
The London health unit will take this whole deal to the Association of Local Public Health Agencies (ALPHA) this June in hopes that every single health unit (all 36 of them) will back them up.
And if they do - I'm moving.
Sure - i'm annoyed by 19 and 20 year old Americans swarming here as well...but let's face it...they float our downtown.
They do.
Our dollar is no longer that big a pull to come over.
If they shut the door on the young crazy D-town drinkers...all the bars might as well start putting boards up on their doors and setting rat traps - because Ouellette avenue will be a bloody ghost town.
ALPHA executive director Linda Stewart stated: "There is now a stronger known link between alcohol and cancer. We've been discussing those issues related to alcohol and what we want to be doing with those issues."
Yes. Drop the "C" word.
The Cancer card.
Seriously. Fuck. Off.
Kind of like cigarettes. They'll kill you. Dead.
They are toxic.
They say on the box in bold letters: "THESE ARE POISONOUS AND WILL KILL YOU" - yet they are still government regulated and sold legally to people who are of age.
"You Must Be 19 Years of Age to Get Cancer."
I don't get it.
If the goverment gave a shit about us and our cancer - they'd cut their loss and make cigarettes FLAT OUT ILLEGAL.
Instead, now they have the right to fine us a couple grand for smoking them in all the places they have made it illegal to smoke cigarettes - so they in TURN profit even MORE off our addiction.
I don't smoke. I'll gladly vote for cigarettes to become illegal.
Thing is - it wouldn't be economy aggressive, would it?
So...the big cancer scare with booze. This is a case of Windsor getting the shaft ONCE again.
This is a case of ONTARIO - the PROVINCE - stopping at London.
The rest of us swine don't exist, right?
Here's my plan:
Lower the drinking age in Windsor to 18.
Legalize marijuana in Windsor and open up a few pot cafe's.
Bring some kick ass acts to the new Casino.
Downtown will flourish with tourists.
Yeah - not exactly the picture of eutopia...but hell - I've never known a pot head to be aggressive - and I know a few people who could use a toke or two to take it down a few notches.
Myself included, perhaps.
But seriously - the last POSSIBLE THING we need to do is up the drinking age.
That is ridiculous - it's suicidal - it's stupid - anyone who works downtown will tell you.
First the bars will go. Then the Shawarma joints.
Then the restaurants.
Then the movie theatres.
Then the cafe's..
This needs to be nicked NOW before we shoot ourselves in the foot.
We need to be Sin City.
That's my vision of what COULD work.
A bunch of little eclectic and cheap shops selling funky jewellery, pot pipes, indie record stores...and bars, clubs, pubs, sports bars, live music, pot cafes - and yeah even massage parlours.
Drinking. Gambling. Smoking.
And I'm not talking about chaos and crime.
I'm talking about a BOOMING downtown scene.
A "scene".
A destination.
A getaway.
I think the fancy art dealers would follow.
The trendy designer boutiques.
Windsor could be fucking cool. Hell - it already IS cool...but she needs some help and right now - I don't know...I think it's time we become what we are.
Think about it. If you were a 19 year old American...how FUN a getaway-destination would Windsor be ?
You cross a river...into a different country...you get a hotel room...you go out for a fancy dinner in a nice place...then you hit the Casino...you have a few drinks...you hit a club...you dance up a sweat...then...hell - you hit a pot cafe!!
Windsor could be - and is Little Amsterdam.
Almost.
If we bring BACK a prohibition...does ANYONE think it's going to help the situation out at ALL?
It sounds like nothing but the final nail being hammered in, but I guess if we wanna fuck ourselves over, we're doing everything 100% bang-on.
*sigh*
So, so sad to see this happening to this city. I love Windsor because it is loveable, and it has an innocent and unapologetic approach to fun - but it has a very wild and outrageous side...and I think it wants to come out to play.
I love this city. I don't want it to turn into a sleaze-factory, don't get me wrong.
Thing is - I just don't want to see it hollowed out any more than it already is.
Let's raise a glass, shall we?
Here's to the booze guzzlin', slot-machine-pullin', hot body contest-ing, restaurant-eating, rub-and-tuggin' 19 year olds.
Welcome to Windsor!

Let Love Swallow Your Fears.

As an agnostic turned Christ follower...you can imagine that this is not an easy blog for me. I've been waiting a bit to drop this one, but I'm not sure I can wait any longer.
I've been speaking at some highschools and gradeschools lately - sharing the story of this pretty crazy journey into faith - and I have to tell you - I'm still on that road, don't get me wrong!
The church which has embraced me is an interdenominational ministry whose purpose is to teach me - as a new Christian - how to unleash the power of scripture and evangelism.
But do it "my way".
And it's simple. All you have to do is share the stories of the gospel in the most simple way possible...the way Jesus did.
Ask yourself this question:
Who do you know who isn't saved? A co-worker? Your mother? Mayor Eddie Francis? Your father? A spouse? Think of the terrible fate if they die without Christ.
You love them and want them to be saved, but perhaps you don't know what to say.
Good news brothers and sisters (funny, how I always used those terms when I was referring to you - my readers...- and it's true - it's what we really are):
You no longer have to be at a loss for words.
You don't need to be an expert in apologetics and you don't need to know Greek or Latin.
It's high time peoples of the world focus more on what we can do for our fellowmen...and fellow lesbians - and what we can contribute for the betterment of mankind:
Just let love swallow your fears.
Let love swallow your fears.