Zoom! (an excerpt from Plant)

The neurosis kicks in. It was three hours before the connecting flight was scheduled to take off. I pat myself down, the 146th time to ensure that yes, I do have my plane ticket. I unfold it, and read Gate 76 for the 78th time. I go through customs. I sweat, I shake. Wallet, belt, jacket, change everything prepared well in advance of the metal detector. Can the customs agents sense my anxiety? Are they going to take me aside, pat me down, ask me questions? Not this time, phew. I pass through customs with ease.

Zoom I go through long airport hallways, zinging playfully on automated walkways. A spring in my step, the adventure slowly continues. Gate 71-91 to the left. Gate 71, 72, 73, 74, I stop at magazine stand, buy a Rolling Stones magazine, a bunch of gum, a bag of Doritos and a Coca Cola. Gate 75... here I am, Gate 76. Now I sit and wait, only 2 and a half more hours until I am back in the air. Bliss. A notebook, or some Kerouac, I am On the Road, those would be my guesses.

"Canada 2000 Flight 216 is now preparing for preboarding. If you are a 1st class ticket holder, or need assistance with boarding our aircraft, please make your way to the boarding desk now. An announcement will be made soon for regular boarding. Thank you."

My heart begins to pound. It won't be long now. I chomp furiously on my gum, pat myself down for ticket the 576th time. Nope it won't be long until, whosh, off I will zoom to Edmonton. Do I have time for one last smoke? Am I addicted already? That is a story for another day. I better stick with gum, who needs the stress of trying to find a smoking section? Pop, chomp.

Seat 36F, a window seat, score! Smush, I stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me. Chomp, chomp, chomp, nervously I load more gum into my mouth. I put on my headphones, I press play on my yellow Sports Walkman. A mixed tape, Beastie Boys, perhaps some New Order. The stewardess, who was doing the rounds, checking seatbelts, making sure the overhead luggage was secure, politely asks me to please take off the headphones until after the safety demonstration was over and the plane had left the ground. Drats, they catch me every time. Who really watches and listens to that silly display anyway? Damn them and their rules. I comply, of course, there was no need to piss off the stewardess, I might want a drink later.

Thanksgiving is for the birds...

A full report is underway on what I think of all the traditions America has screwed up, it has butchered Thanksgiving the worst. It's a wonderful concept that has lost it's true meaning. The way we celebrate this holiday is for turkeys...and I fucking hate it. PLENTY MORE TO COME...and happy thanksgiving!

Sarah Palin is an insult to the intelligent

Sarah,
Storms are brewing in your eyes,
Sarah,
Now I can realize
Sarah,
You're like a beauty queen
Sarah,

~ Jefferson Starship



Unless you have been living in a cave (and if you have I am jealous), it would be impossible not to have noticed how America has once again gone gaga for Sarah Palin. What should have been nothing more than a failed politician's book tour, has morphed into a weird hookie hockey mom love/hate fest. The ability of Sarah Palin to attract public attention is one of the world's grand mysteries. She has been described as polarizing, as representative of the average guy, grassroots, real, all the stuff that makes modern conservative just so frickin' wonderful. Basically Sarah shits conservative rainbows (talking points and cliches as well), she is the queen of the right, the left (me included) are baffled. Is there a spray, a soap, an anti-Palin cream? She burns our brains, she is an insult to the intelligent.

Sarah Palin is George W. Bush in a $1000 skirt. A mental midget, all charm, zero substance. The idea that there are those in the conservative movement that see Palin as some sort of great white hope, that she might be the future of the Republican Party astounds me. Is conservatism political delusion? Am I so left, so liberal that my own ability to see the brilliance that is Sarah Palin is compromised? I don't get it. Just like I didn't understand how Bush II could have been nominated let alone win the American Presidency. Why? Well because I think there has to be a level of intelligence met in order to become the most powerful person on the planet. Bush was no where near that level of intelligence, neither is Sarah Palin. If that makes me a member of the liberal elite, so be it, send me my membership cards in the mail. This is not the entertainment industry, hunting, watching the Texas Rangers or drinking a few beers, this is the Presidency of the United States of America. Bush was grossly under-qualified, as too is Sarah Palin. Brainless conservatism, or puppet conservatism has been a proven failure, a disaster that has set the USA and the world back decades.

Sarah's 15 minutes of fame should have ended months ago. She will not become the first female President of the United States, she will however, sell a lot of books, she might get a talk show, there will always be room for her on Fox. My advice to my friends down south is this; if you ignore her she might go away. You betcha, Sarah loves the attention and she will do anything to stay in the public eye. Tune her out, switch the channel, she is no good for you, she isn't even all that cute. The hockey mom look was so 2008...

By Special Guest Contributor Stephanie Stebbins!

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2009

Why Good Journalism Is Important

There is a disturbing trend I have watched develop over the last decade or so.

Yellow Journalism seems to be taking over more and more respectable news sources.

Now, before anyone forgets, Faux News, I mean, Fox News, has never been even close to a semblance of a credible news source.

I mean, come on. One of their own spokesmen ADMITTED that they use propaganda on a consistent and constant basis.

Now that we have that out of the way, I would like to talk to YOU,CNN.

Yellow Journalism, as I learned it, is the use of attention-grabbing headlines in order to draw in readers or the practice of presenting opinion as fact.

Now, more than ever, we are bombarded with a never-ending stream of information. Whether it is the internet, cable news, or the slowly dying print media, if you want to find out about what is going on in the world, it is literally less than a click away.

The information junkie part of myself is in love with this fact, but the cynical side of me often wonders just how reliable these sources are that the information is coming from.

Really? A helium balloon can carry a six year old child? How stupid do you think we are? Do you mean to tell me you are seriously going to cover this ALL DAY when it takes 4 SECONDS for it to register in your brain that this is physically impossible??? Wow. Faaaaaaantastic.

You see, I don't know if it is because I am the daughter of a former Washington Post reporter and Virginian-Pilot editor or maybe I just have common sense, but more and more I am noticing a lot more opinion seeping in and less and less facts.

And, it bothers me.

It bothers me, immensely.

I see it as a personal responsibility as a journalist, no matter what "type" of journalist you are, to present the facts as they are and NOT what you think of said facts.

I understand that as a writer, you are allotted your own voice and must use it, BUT I draw the line when journalists delve into opinion territory while reporting facts.

Call me silly, but isn't that an editorial and not a report?

I truly believe that especially now we, the American people, DESERVE to be given facts.

Just the facts.

I don't know about you, but if you give me the facts, I can pretty much ascertain my OWN opinion from it, without the help of any "talking head."

And, I truly believe that the rest of us are perfectly capable of doing that, as well.

So, this is my open letter to you, Journalists of America. It is time to bring TRUE fact reporting back.

Walter Cronkite would be pleased.

Your thoughts?

The Joe Lane classic: "On Style"

I just wanted to post a Joe Lane classic with some of the original comments; "On Style". It always seems to help "beat away the basterd" when the ink flows slowly. And Joe, you can feel free to take this down in 10 minutes if ya want I just wanted to have it on the sidebar menu for all to stumble back across. RE-Enjoy, everyone!

So I drank a full pot of coffee, things began to rumble, things were shaking down south. Off I whisked to the bathroom, my den of silence, the place where I get most of my best reading and for that matter thinking done.

What am I reading right now? I am reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahnuik. Truth be told I am not sure I like it. It's not the content, his premise is solid. It is a story about the fashion industry: super models, trannies, flashing cameras, oh my. No, I am digging the plot. It's his style. I am finding the whole damn thing too gimmicky. He is trying too hard, too many tricks. I wish he'd tell the story, I am already dizzy and I have read only 20 pages. So there, no offense Mr. Palahnuik, you're brilliant, I am a huge fan. It's just that the first 20 pages of Invisible Monsters had me reaching for the Gravol. Maybe that's the point. But what is my point? Is this a book review? Heavens no, this is a rant about style.

Style versus substance. I used to write raw, I abhorred the shackles of grammar and structure. I thought them false constraint; I believed my mind and my words were too wild to be caged. Blame Kerouac and his beats. Then thank them for the inspiration. I eventually began to blog, which meant that my words were being 'published' with the potential for all to read. The perfectionism sunk in. I was now playing a writer on the Internet. I had better buck up, edit, edit, spell check, worry. I took it one step further. I enrolled in journalism classes. British journalism classes at that. I wanted my words and the structure of them scrutinized like only the British could. I wanted to be as good as I could get. Style be damned.

Guess what? The words then stopped. It was no longer fun writing. It became a task, something too clean, more akin to washing the dishes than art. I was in a creative funk. The old me- raw, poetic, rebellious vs the new me- polite, structured, tight. I have been writing through that battle now for the last couple of years. The poet versus the journalist. Perhaps I am a new breed of poetic journalist. But I will let Matt comment about that- he is, of course the expert in all things gonzo.

So there. Not a book review, not an attack on Chuck Palahnuik, just some observations on literary style, from a guy still searching for the best belt to match with his literary hat. Now off I waddle to the bathroom on a quest for the next grand subject. Excuse me a moment.

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Little girls are weird

The bell rang at 3:05, kids of various sizes poured out the school doors. YAY! It was Friday afternoon, hurray for the weekend! My job was to fetch my 10-year-old daughter and three of her closest friends. I spotted one, then two was with three. Where was four? We waited and waited and waited some more. The kids did what kids do, they played tag, wrestled, squealed, squelched, were generally manic. Finally the fourth wacky wee one arrived, something to do with not explaining to the after school program people that she was coming home with us.

Off we went. Me, three girls and their one little boy toy, yee haw. I am not sure how the after school folks do it. I can handle my own, they gray my hair and I love them, but large groups of children frighten me, too damn much nervous energy. The first stop was at my son's best friend's house, to pick up he and his best friend. Are you keeping track? That is me versus six children. Lord of the freaking Flies, I was scared for my life. Fortunately, by the time we picked up the two little fellas, we were only a block or so away from home. I was going to survive the first bit.

Let the party begin! First it was build your own pizza. Kids have weird tastes, pineapple, cheese and Italian sausage, or better, half cheese and half mushroom (divine!). The kids merely picked at their pizzas, it seems that the construction of the pizza was much more fun than its degustation. The pop, ice cream, chips and chocolate chip cookies however, were a huge success. Go figure. I survived the second bit, I began the 3rd bit in the kitchen. Thank you dishes!

Movie time. We rented enough for the kids to stay up well into the next day. Hours and hours of Disney-esque stuff. Zac Efron you cad, you beautiful beast.

The boys left at 8:00ish, the girls shut themselves into the living room, my 6-year-old went to bed, Amy and I locked ourselves into our bedroom. Chick flicks, (I love you Beth Cooper, Superbad with a miniskirt, funny) hurray! Three 10-year-olds girls in an enclosed space, wow the noise they made. It was then that my eye started to twitch...keep it together man, the night was young.

The goal (of course) was for the girls to pull an all-nighter (well duh, it was a sleep-over, don't you know anything?). They tried their best. I had to tell them to try and be a little quieter at 1:20 am. I heard the coming and going of little girl feet until about 3:30 am. Oh man, morning was gonna suck. I survived, sorta.

I tried to sleep in, I figured I might be able to tone out the morning madness with some extra zzzzs. That however, wouldn't have been fair to Amy. Eeeks the natives were hungry, restless and over-tired. Up I sprang to save the day. Why can't I get coffee delivered in a UV drip? A caffeine patch. The bags under my eyes grew four times that morning, but there were eggs to be scrabbled, bagels to toast, juice to pour, geesh.

Yawn. Amy wants to do this every month or so. Help me.

Ewwww, messy

art

as the
spirit
wanes
the
form
appears.

~ Charles Bukowski

The spirit has definitely waned, I lack form, I am formless. I am in a creative void, beyond bastardly writer's block, this is a void of black hole-like proportions... HUGE. I am cut to the core, I am questioning why I pretend to play the game at all. What is the point?

Once a week or so, after I tell someone I am a writer, I get asked what I write, or what kind of a writer I am. I usually begin my response with a um, well I have a diploma in journalism (ooo, ahh, how interesting), I haven't been published, it is rough out there, yada, yada, meh. The whole damn thing reminds me of when I was a vegetarian, I was asked and asked and asked again why I didn't eat meat. At first it was easy. I would say something along the lines that I was against the domestication and slaughter of animals for food. Yes, that was me, I was one of those pretentious, wanna be hippies (the first step is admitting it), thank gawd my love of meat and need for protein won the day. That Double Mozza Burger from A & W, nothing ever tasted better. Drool.

Wait, wait, does that mean I am giving up on writing because I find it pretentious, because I can't fit myself into a neat box? Nah, I simply feel a little cornered right now. I am worried that writing is nothing more than a hobby, or worse, a bad habit. I worry that, I simply write for fun, that I will never be able to make a living as a writer. I am suffering from a crisis of confidence and it sucks.

But worry not. I will not be stuffed into a box... no way, never! The way I write, the why and how I write, hell I can't really intelligently answer those questions. I just do. I write because it is a biological imperative, it's like burping, like farting, a piss or a shit. If I don't write, I might explode. Ewwww, messy.

The National Affairs Desk: Entering a new eschelon

Appologies to Joe for taking the front page space for an ad, but this is some news all of our extended N.A.D. family may have an interest in.

One of our field reporters, Stephanie Stebbins, will be bringing us the N.A.D.'s first actual report from the field. She is writing a piece for us on a shocking new study which has found a direct link between the occurance of autism and residential proximity to industrial facilities; power plants in particular. There will be original photography as well. Get ready for the N.A.D. to enter a new level of the game...or atleast for ONE article...STAY TUNED!

The planting papers: Nick the night clown

Back to Whyte Avenue, the Commercial Hotel, Edmonton Alberta, Canada. Add 35 or so dirty, stinky tree planters and a night manager who can't stand dirty, stinky tree planters, comedy would surly ensue. The night manager, Nick was his name, he was a bit of a celebrity, a clown of a fella, hence the nickname: Nick the night clown.

Nick had his eye on me, he could smell a rat and I was coming off rodent. The scam, I will have you know, was to have a group of 20 or so planters book 4 or 5 rooms, then, get this, someone would open up the fire exit letting the other 10 or so planters sneak in. We had done it a bunch of times before and without fail. We were convinced that we could pull it off again this time. What could wrong? Really, I mean we were dealing with Nick the night clown, a mental midget, too easy.

Before the caper began, we hit the pub attached to the Commercial. A little pool and some liquid courage to sharpen the senses. The Commercial Pub was a biker/blues bar, a tough spot, but with great music and cheap booze. It was never a spot where you ended your night, but it was a helluva spot to start. But where was I? Oh yes, plying myself with beer, waiting for the signal... operation hotel room would soon begin.

Myself and my buddy Clarke needed some fresh threads (no mean feat, everything we owned, if dry, was stained a nice earthy brown). Off we went into the Ryder truck which housed all our gear. Clarke, gawd love him found a can of Bear Scare (pepper spray), he decided it was a good idea to spray a little, just a little, in the back of the Ryder, 'you know just to see what it was like'. See, who could see? The whole of the box of the Ryder was filled with the noxious spray. Blinded, coughing and yes laughing, we jumped out of the back of the truck. We had to walk it off, we still haven't found a room to crash, yet. Ouch, it burned, it burned.

Once our eyes stopped watering Clarke and I decided to try and find our bed for the night. We went back into the pub, found someone who had a room, asked them to meet us at the fire exit. Clarke went up first, peeked into the hallway, gave a thumbs up and disappeared inside. Up I went, I peeked into the hallway, first I looked left, no Nick, then I looked right, no Nick. A huzzah to the perfect crime.

In order to ebb suspicion, I carefully shut and locked the fire exit. 'HEY!' There he was, there was Nick the night clown at the end of the hallway. Flashlight in hand and approaching fast. 'Hey you, stop, wait, you get out of here'. I sprang down the hall, into a stairwell down a coupla flights of stairs, zoom into a lady's washroom (Nick would never look there). I waited for five minutes, crossed my fingers that there were no ladies with any biological needs, then tried my luck.

BUSTED! 'There you are, I caught you, you leave the hotel, if I see you in here again, I will call the police'. 'Yes sir, I am sorry sir'.

Fuck, where was I gonna stay? I was broke, it was late. Everyone I knew was either in the hotel or out about town. Hmmmm? The Ryder, could I sleep there? It was a warm night, it was shelter, it was free, what the hell?

I ripped open the back door of the Ryder, whoosh, the lingering fumes of pepper spray smacked me in the face. Yep, I was living large. Hurray for me! I moved a few duffel bags around, I made myself a comfy nest. I slept, well sorta.

Ronald

Caption, but be kind. I mean look at him.

The Truth Won't Set Us Free

We know the truth. Michael Werbowski, in "America: After the Fall", tells us ...

20 years after the fall of communism, American-style capitalism has also fallen. But the downfall was silent, without any visible walls toppling or crumbling. The 9/11-like collapse of the financial firms of Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers left no piles of rubble or slabs of fractured concrete on the ground, just lots of laid off traders and deal makers. But the brokerage and investment banks' end signaled the death knell of market capitalism as we knew it; another misbegotten ideology born out of the musings of Adam Smith, Ricardo and Milton Friedman was laid to rest unceremoniously. The troika which presumed that man’s most bestial instincts can be curbed in the pursuit of profit and happiness were wrong ...

The president’s inverted version of “perestroika” (that is, the restructuring or retooling of the economy) has been fine tuned to meet the need of the oligarchs and corporate barons who support him and prompt him behind the curtains. Obama and his czar–commissars (and his adoring minions of PR spin operatives) have deftly in a brilliant slight of hand in one swift jest, effectively expropriated the entire financial and industrial sectors in America by means of massive taxpayer funded “bail outs”. These ploys have turned the essence of capitalism upside down, by rewarding cronyism and criminal behavior to the point where “crime pays” very handsomely indeed, and enables billionaires, fraudsters and financiers to obtain great gain almost without almost any pain or punishment. These perverse policies are likely to fail. In the end, Gorbachev’s policies, although ostensibly well meaning, actually hastened the demise of the Soviet state. This later led to its fragmentation and disintegration of the communist superpower and its Eastern Empire. America’s current plight may lead to a similar outcome.

We know the truth. In his piece, "Self-jiving Nation", Jim Kunstler writes ...

If you think we have been in a crisis of finance and economy for the past year or so, consider that we have also been sunk in a comprehensive crisis of leadership. Nobody in authority is willing to face the truth, state the truth, and offer a reality-based idea about how to meet the truth, This is a leadership failure not just in politics and government, but also in business, in the university faculties, in the editorial and production offices of the news media, and even among a barely-breathing clergy ...

We know the truth, but we can't handle it. We grasp at straws of hope, looking for anything in the media blabber and bluster to light the sky over the wasteland. Even the survivalists don't seem to grasp that "The World as We Know It" is gone; what we see now is a chimera, and that's about all.

See it or not, most of us are sucking on a try breast of truly "faith-based" delusion that somehow "recovery" is just over the horizon.

I cringe when I hear that this will be a "jobless recovery". That is the new leader on the list of oxymora. An economic landscape which benefits only those who steal their money from the people is the new truth. We have not, through "bailouts", invested in a system in which the rich elitists reinvest their riches in the interest of a valued, common society of equal human beings. Fuggedaboutit!

But instead of moving gamely through the steps of dealing with our grief over the loss of comfortable, debt-generated illusion, we are caught in the vicious cycle of denial and anger, denial and anger, ad infinitum. And instead of turning our anger against those who have stolen our dreams (they were nothing more than that), we rage against each other in polarized cults, thinking we inhabit our own chosen political temples of truth. Such folly. Heh. We've got 'em just where they want us.

The truth is plain. Last week at the International Forecaster, in "A New System For The Privleged Is Not A Remedy For The Economy", the author writes ...

Our usurping, . . . spendthrift President, together with our corrupt, elitist-bootlicking Congress of money-grabbing Dumbos and Jackasses, are spending us into a multi-trillion dollar hyperinflationary oblivion as their ratings by their constituents drop into the toilet bowl, ratings which are disgracefully the lowest in all of US history. With a diabolical "Robin Hood in Reverse" plan in place since 1913 for the extortion of money from the US middle class to reduce their serfs to poverty and abject slavery, the Illuminati have managed to use the Federal Reserve Act and US income tax, together with the Social Security Ponzi Scheme, phony, orchestrated wars for profit, socialization of bankster-gangster losses, the globalism/free trade/off-shoring/outsourcing/legal-illegal immigration agendas, and a totally bought-and-paid-for President, Congress, judiciary and regulatory agencies, to reduce US citizens to consumerist credit addicts, living pay check to pay check like narcissistic hedonists ...

There's that word again - "narcissist".

This is from a book review piece done back in April by MSNBC/Today Show, "Me, me, me! America’s ‘Narcissism Epidemic’" ...

A popular song declares, with no apparent sarcasm, "I believe that the world should revolve around me!" People buy expensive homes with loans far beyond their ability to pay — or at least they did until the mortgage market collapsed as a result. Babies wear bibs embroidered with "Supermodel" or "Chick Magnet" and suck on "Bling" pacifiers while their parents read modernized nursery rhymes from This Little Piggy Went to Prada. People strive to create a "personal brand" (also called "self-branding"), packaging themselves like a product to be sold. Ads for financial services proclaim that retirement helps you return to childhood and pursue your dreams. High school students pummel classmates and then seek attention for their violence by posting YouTube videos of the beatings.

Although these seem like a random collection of current trends, all are rooted in a single underlying shift in the American psychology: the relentless rise of narcissism in our culture. Not only are there more narcissists than ever, but non-narcissistic people are seduced by the increasing emphasis on material wealth, physical appearance, celebrity worship, and attention seeking. Standards have shifted, sucking otherwise humble people into the vortex of granite countertops, tricked-out MySpace pages, and plastic surgery. A popular dance track repeats the words "money, success, fame, glamour" over and over, declaring that all other values have "either been discredited or destroyed."

The United States is currently suffering from an epidemic of narcissism. Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines an epidemic as an affliction "affecting ... a disproportionately large number of individuals within a population," and narcissism more than fits the bill. In data from 37,000 college students, narcissistic personality traits rose just as fast as obesity from the 1980s to the present, with the shift especially pronounced for women ...

Yes, you see, we know the truth. We just can't do anything with the awful stuff.

Consider ... the primary thesis of classical liberalism, now brought to the farthest extremes in our society, dictates that the individual embodies the highest form of being, endowed with inalienable rights. No matter that the pursuit of such rights pretty much guarantees the alienation of everyone else's rights. The reconciliation was supposed to be managed by capitalism, thus taking the need for personal responsibility away from the individual and allowing "markets" to govern our behaviors. That, as Werbowski notes above, has finally failed, leaving the thieves with the keys and combinations to all the safes.

The truth is this: we have been and are being inexorably distracted from grasping the truth - wars, health care "reform", same-sex marriage, economic "recovery" statistics, cash for clunkers, political and media peccadilloes, and all the silly crap we are fed on a daily basis are a cacophonous diverson from the stark reality that the bread is all but gone and the circus is in town.

In "Social Decay in America" at CounterPunch, John stanton writes ...

American society merrily avoids accountability and responsibility. Americans seek the loophole and blame others--be they individuals, networks or nations--for their own deficiencies. American leaders direct the consequences of poor judgment down the chain-of-command. Why?

The American people have taken the bait from the nation’s op-ed writers and talking heads, corporate CEO’s, financiers, the president, members of congress, justices of the Supreme Court, governors, sports/movie/think-tank/academic stars, and military leaders. In the USA these are the script writers of the American narrative and masters of the American consciousness. They stand firm in their belief that the masses down below will follow their words and deeds, even die for them. They are the Unaccountable Elite.

And the American people don’t disappoint. Only on rare occasions is an “American leader” taken to task by a concerned public. The American people revel in their leaders, glorifying and emulating them and striving, one day, to make it like their idols did. In so doing they have forsaken their duty as American citizens to hold their leaders to account and, as consumers, divine what is theater and what is not ...

Maybe, just maybe, the truth will set some of us free. But first, it is driving us crazy.

Categories: Americanism, narcissism, post-democracy, post-economics, post-society, reality

[originally posted at P!]

Strange beds, migraines, puke, rollercoasters and roadtrips, oh my.

everything here shakes
shivers
bends
blasts
in fierce gamble
~ Charles Bukowski

I never sleep well in a strange bed. Tuesday night, after a day filled with car trips, an inordinate amount of moms and tots, a trip to the mall and a shortage of coffee, I crawled into a strange bed, my head pounding. I didn't sleep a wink. My headache turned into a full blown migraine by morning. Ouch.

Tired, in extreme pain, I ate breakfast, drank a cup of coffee (lack of caffeine yesterday, was that the cause of my brain pain?), then lied down on the couch. I tried to take a nap with Zoey, no sleep, pound, pound. Finally the woman whose house we were staying arrived with a couple of Advils and some sort of vipo-rub pain reliever, which she massaged into my temples, forehead and the back of my neck. I lied there and waited for the drugs to kick in.

I am not sure if the drugs kicked in, but 5 minutes later I said 'ew, I think I am gonna puke... yep I am gonna, hic, hic..'. Off I ran, hand over mouth, to the bathroom, which fortunately was only about 20 feet away. Boy oh boy did I ever puke. It was like I was suffering from a flashback hangover, it was horrible. Yikes, the impression I must have made on our host. Classy.

The plan for the day, the promise we made to the kids, was to take them to an indoor amusement park called Crystal Palace. Ye gods I was gonna have to get my brain in order and fast! Oddly enough, I slowly began to feel better after a good solid power puke. An hour or so later, my brain and my belly felt well enough to dress the children, pile them into the car and drive them to the amusement park. Yay, and I quote 'YAY!'.

We stopped at a Burger King first. It was around lunch time, I had purged myself of supper and breakfast a couple of hours earlier. I was hungry, the greasier the better, I needed something to stick to my leery ribs. NOM, NOM, NOM, burp! Adequately stuffed with fast food, baby changed and similarly filled with momma's milk, we ran towards the entrance... this was gonna be the best day ever!

First we went on the bumper cars. Might as well test the brain with some bumps and whiplash. Brain held up, belly too. I might survive this day yet. I then took the 6 year old on a bunch of rides that were more his speed. The trucks, a choo choo train, back on the bumper cars, repeat. A quick coffee break, huzzah for Chapters and Starbucks (I scored Bukowski's The Pleasures of the Damned) an amusement park for adults, weeee!

My 10 year old daughter spent much of the afternoon on the rollercoaster, she went around and around and around. This is a girl that gets car sick, but has no fear of rollercoasters, yep, she is an odd one. Anyway, the 6 year old through some taunting and teasing from his older sister was convinced to hop on the rollercoaster, as long as I sat with him.

Up we went, tic, tic, tic. Zach was getting noticeably more and more nervous. Whoosh, off we flew, zoom, zing, around a corner we zipped, hurtling towards a tunnel, that's when Zach lost it. MAKE IT STOP, I WANT TO GET OFF! I was not aware that the coaster did 3 passes, I figured we were about done, I thought I'd get him off, give him a hug, thus limiting the trauma. I was wrong, ZING, we zoomed past the starting point...I WANNA GET OFFFFFFF, AHHHHHHHHH! Poor Zach, the horror continued. Fortunately I was able to catch the ride attendant's attention before we went on a third hellish pass.

Zach shaken up, but no longer strapped into a torture device, simply needed a hug and some orange pop, poof, the roller coaster was all but forgotten... or at least repressed. The father of the world award goes to... bah, forget it.

Three hours or so later, we were collectively knackered. It was time to put food in the wee one's bellies, it was time to make the long trip home. After a short detour back to the place we had stayed the night before, then a stop at a restaurant for some sustenance, we began the hour or so ride home. The baby like the rest of us was over-tired, she cried all the way home. How the migraine failed to return is a medical mystery.

What a 13 or so hours. It began with a migraine, continued with some vomit, lead to some swirling and whirling and was topped off with an hour of driving with an infant crying the whole way. I was told there would be days like this, I was not convinced that I would ever survive it. Survive I did and you know what, I actually had fun. No I am not a fan of migraines, vomit or noisy car rides, heck I am not even a fan of amusement parks... the fun I guess was in playing super dad, maybe it was the 20 minutes of book shopping, I dunno? I am glad I survived and wow am I happy to be home.

The planting papers: So I arrive in Edmonton...

So I arrive in Edmonton, it was late May, there was a chill in the air. I was a complete stranger to the city. I was told to show up at such and such a mall the very next morning. I only had to survive one night. What could go wrong? Anything and everything, but I am getting ahead of myself. I am still at the airport. First time in my life I have been in Edmonton, Alberta, heck anywhere west of Toronto. There wasn't much planning, I had a job, it began the next morning, let the games begin. My priority right now was to find a place to stay. I had heard stories about the Commercial Hotel, I heard it was a dive, but cheap. I asked the cabby to take me there.

Whyte Ave, in the mid 90s, so yes, it was mad. The Commercial Hotel was a dive, one of the roughest places I have ever stayed. In its basement there was a mini skid row (I saw and heard some awful things down there), each room throughout the joint looked different, the whole place hadn't been redecorated since 1958. It never makes much of a first impression, but holy crap do I ever have a million stories in and around that place. I booked a room, I rid myself of all my gear, I hit Whyte Ave, I went exploring.

The next next morning, I made my way to a mall, more specifically a liquor store at the other end of the parking lot. There was supposed to be a yellow school bus waiting there, one that was gonna whisk us off into the wilderness. One problem... it wasn't there. Did I go to the right place? Was I in the right parking lot? The instructions and the directions both seemed legit, everything made sense, aside from the lack of yellow school bus, oh and other tree planters. There were none of those types wandering about. Yikes, what do I do now, I thought. I call head office. Hello, I am so and so, um isn't there supposed to be a bus here? Isn't it all supposed to start today, I asked. Oh, Mr so and so, we are sorry, we were unable to get a hold of you, the trees aren't ready yet, we hope to start in 5 days, they answered. Holy fuck, I have like 40 bucks and a Petro Canada card... 5 days, ouch.

Where does a fella down on his luck and short on money always end up? The YMCA of course. I had to find a Y.

Yellow pages, they were the Internet before the information age...flip, flip, flip, YMCA... downtown Edmonton I went. Edmonton's downtown was near empty, had a real eerie feeling. Large glass buildings, very light traffic, no pedestrians, tumbleweeds (I lie). There I was 22 years old, a back and front full of gear, asking for a bed for a few nights. Rooms cost $17, I had $40, so enough for 2 nights, $6 in change, but who's counting?

Yikes, 2 nights, I will figure it out, I always figure it out. They gave me a key to a double room. Up I went, relieving myself of all that gear, I changed my sweaty shirt, then plunked down on a lumpy old bed, reached into a backpack, rummaged around, first pulling out a Walkman (the year was 1995, long live the mixed tape!) then put Mercury Rev's 'Boces'in it and pressed play. I lied there, I zoned out for a bit, I escaped.

An hour or so later the door swung open, I had a roommate, oh joy, oh bliss. There is no escaping here. My roommate was a tall, skinny fella, with a long 'rocker' mullet. He wasn't intimidating at all, just at that point, he was yet another pain in my ass.

Turns out he had a car, which was important. Why, you ask? Well because cars need gas and the only cash I had came in the form of a gas card from Petro Canada. I put five bucks gas in his tank and we could then attain sustenance in the way of gas station chicken salad sandwiches and potato chips. You do what you can to survive.

I don't remember much of the whole ordeal, I have memories of watching the Devils sweep the Red Wings in Stanley Cup Finals in the Y lounge. I remember being nervous, I remember thinking, what the hell have I got myself into? I remember frequent calls home and frequent calls to head office. I remember wondering if I had made a huge mistake...?

Eventually, 5 days later (or was it 3?)the bus arrived in the parking lot, there were tree planters mulling about. Hacky sacks were kicked, early friendships were formed. On the bus I climbed. Rumble, hiccup, cough the bus rolled towards the Albertan foothills. The adventure had just begun. Yikes.

Monkeys on a train...

Caption fun!

What's been up...?

I have been sitting it out. I have been unplugged. A week ago it was through near technological disaster. (laptops don't much like water, glug, sizzle, pop!) Then it was from need to spend time with the family. A fella has to get his shit together in the real world sometimes. Now, I seem to have lost my gusto for the whole thing. I am not sure of the point of all this time spent (wasted?) on line.

I love this blog. It has afforded me the opportunity to get a few of my words out there. It has allowed me to contribute with some amazing friends and fellow writers. The NAD has puffed me up. It has filled me with confidence. The NAD makes me feel like I can.

The NAD is not the problem. Nope, as much as I might be distracted to blog, blogging is good distraction. If anything, I could probably blog more often. Anytime I am writing, I am being productive. No, folks, this blog has been good for me, it is not to blame. What is to blame? Do I really have to tell you? Those of you in my on line world, the ones that know me best, you know what the problem really is. It is social media. I have an addictive personality, I am a creature of habit. Social media sites like Twitter can consume me and all my time.

This is not really a condemnation of social media. Far from it, I love social media. I also love all my on line friends, my Tweeps. This is simply a bit of self-analysis. I get swept up in things. I get sucked into the web... I get neglectful of the things that are real, the world around me.

The truth is, as hard as I try, I can't turn 140 characters into a down payment for a mini-van or a house. The NAD, even with its ironic Scientology ads, will not bring in the extra scratch and make Christmas all that better. Nope, the constant chatter, even at its most engaging does not pay the bills. The truth is, I need a job. In order for me to find one, I have to severely cut back on social media distraction.

I hate looking for work. It is not that I am averse to working. Heck, I can do anything. It is not the prospect of a soul sucking 9 to 5er that bothers me either. It is the search. I hate the phone calls, the resume building, the reference finding, the interviews... the feeling of constant judgment. All that and damn it, do I ever want to write for a living. Alas, I haven't figured out how to make that work, yet, so off to work I go. Back to punching the clock. Weee!

So bear with me dear friends. I have to focus on the real world and in order for me to do that I need to limit my on line distraction. I will probably blog less, Tweet less, I need to be Joe unplugged. Wish me luck. Better yet, send money. I kid, I kid, a least until I can figure out how to turn the NAD into a charity.

A Horrible Bummer...

For the very first time since it's inception, I have come by the NAD Headquarters site and found no new posts for fucking days! What the hell is going on? I think I felt so bad for the visitors' eyes that I just put something new up on the front page just to avoid looking at that rude Mr' Pumpkin MOONING me...and not to be rude, but hopefully his woman will button up; that's no way to represent the female pumpkin population.

Obviously Joe is VERY busy and Mr. Hunter is still at large. I summon the skills of ggSpiritwrites (help us GAIL!) to help put something worth looking at up for all to see. I just had to get something fresh up. I will be battling "The Bastard" (the National Affairs Desk correspondents' version of WRITER's BLOCK--but far more vicious) with tooth and nail until something besides utter bullshit is brought forth. LONG LIVE THE NAD WEB-U-VERSE...

And PS--Don't forget to stop by thenationalaffairsdesklive.blogspot.com (our NEWS WIRE) for all the "hard to believe" news use can use! It's kind of like stories from the ONION but they are real! Too odd to make the front page of a respectable news source, but too incredible to ignor! COME BACK SOON...

REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING WILL RETURN SHORTLY!!

Halloween

BOO! Hi ya folks. Seems the technical difficulties have sorted themselves out. I have full use of all the letters on my keyboard. Eeeeeks! So there, now that I am able, I thought I would write a little blurb about Halloween, you know, in the spirit of the season.

I have only been trick-or-treating as an adult one other time. A few years ago, I took the son of a friend out. It was a neat experience. It is fun to view Halloween with glee and wonder again. This time around I was the dad. I hung out in the back, I watched, I gossiped with the other neighbourhood parents. We complained mostly about the cutting of school bus service, the ineptitude of such and such crossing guard. We gabbed about who was getting home renovations, who was selling their house, who lived here or there.

I spent much of the night (after the smaller of the trick-or-treaters could walk no more) with my ten-year-old, but more specifically, hanging back in the shadows, with an older mother (grandmother, mad stepmother, aunt?), who wore a multi-colored 80's classic K-Way jumpsuit. And a very chatty Asian (Korean) mom. Isabelle was her name, she was shocked and awed at how generous North American folks were. 'In Korea we would never share with other people's kids, we take care of our own, thats it, Halloween and then Christmas, this place is awesome'.

Horn of plenty indeed, but isn't that the point? It is harvest time, it is time to share in the spoils... or was that what Thanksgiving was all about? As for Christmas... winter solstice? Oh ya, right, baby Jesus.

Back to Isabelle, (most resist the urge to eviscerate each and every holiday as rabid consumerism) she was a riot. The neighbourhood gossip told in a thick Korean accent, she made Halloween fun. I can only hope I can make it into one of her gossipy yarns. 'You are Emily's dad? Sam is in same grade. Emily is the crazy one, the funny one. Emily is allowed to do things.' Hmmm, I can't tell if that statement was a judgment of our parenting style, or a hat tip to the fact that we are raising a very independent and confident little girl, I dunno? I simply let Isabelle talk as we walked and walked and walked. The goal, oh course, was for Emily to fill her whole damned treat bag. Keep going!

We wandered until our feet hurt. Emily's bag full to bursting, it was time to head home, it was time to take stock of the night's bounty. Take stock Emily did, she had out pen and paper, she wrote up a detailed inventory of the night's spoils, all the way down to the last mini-Mars Bar and package of Rockets. Halloween, I will have you know, is serious business