Say something I’ve giving up on you


Some things.


I made this:

jedi meme

In light of the Seahawks’ absolute dismantling of poor Peyton Manning (and what I can only surmise to be the entire collective Coloradean consciousness), I figured post-game we all needed to bring a bit of levity to the situation.

Because, and I think we can also all agree here, that a slightly more entertaining game, and not just a blow-out of every tire on the Denver semi-truck heading to Nowheresville, would have made for a much more enjoyable three hours of football.

(And to all the glorious, gloating – totally deserved, and encouraged gloating – Seattle-ites –  yes, I too am including you in that sentiment.)

Just saying.

But seriously though, what is wrong with this man?

Why does he look like this?

(Also, WHO IS HE?)

And why doesn’t he know that, in the end, the light side always, ALWAYS wins?


This quote:

“A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.” —Charles Peguy

I have been thinking about this a lot of late..

I came across this text in the wake of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s tragic death this past week.  Someone commented that, although he was not a writer, he was often reminded of Mr. Peguy’s word when confronted with Hoffman’s seamless, and yet soul-wracking transition from one character to the next.

And of this, I agree.

I cannot say that I have ever been disappointed by any of his myriad performances. Whether disgusting, or delightful, there was always an innate (and oh-so important) humanity to his characters; one that was never forgotten, nor manipulated, or abused.

But truly, for me, Hoffman will always and forever be The Big Lebowski’s Brandt, the most amazingly sycophantic suck-up to ever grace the silver screen. An absolute perfect foil to both the Dude’s lackadaisical, anti-hero, and Walter’s neo-conservative, Vietnam vet (and owner of Sobchak Securities.)

Just listen to this laugh:

I love this movie more than I can properly communicate, and although only a supporting role, Hoffman’s brilliant portrayal of the Big Lebowski’s assistant is the linchpin, of what I believe to be, the best movie I will most likely ever watch.

And I think that’s why I’m thinking about the quote – everything about the film feels as though it is the sum of months, and months of meticulous preparation, culminating in pitch-perfect performances by absolute masters of their crafts.

It is gut-wrenching in its simplicity, and perfection.

You truly can always tell when an individual, or individuals, put everything they have into their art. (I use the term “art” loosely, and define it as anything from dance, to sculpture, to ultramarathon running, to public company auditing.) It doesn’t matter the medium. Gut-wrenching transcends boundaries, or definitions.

It, as I believe as shown by the outpouring of grief over Mr. Hoffman’s death, transcends life.


For my part, I’ve been doing some light crying all evening long.

Not for any real purpose or another.

I watched this video a couple of hours ago, and all I’ve done in the interim is listen to incredibly sappy, emotionally destructive songs, and read about all the insane human rights abuses occurring at this precise moment, all around the world.

Sometimes I think the world is void of anything good.

There is no other way to describe the sensation of emptiness I feel when confronted by such ignorance and inequality.

I want to run away and hide and have Marc’s strong arms wrap around my weak little body and then we’ll just lie that way until our bones rust, and our smiles turn to stone.

This could, of course, never happen.

Because a.) I know how to turn off Youtube.

And b.) because I am, as some of you know, a proper LOVE WARRIOR and if nobody else is going to champion the betterment of this heaving cesspool of a planet, then I bloody well GET ON IT.

Plus my body is jacked.



I am writing a book.

This is exciting.



For my birthday I did this to my hair:


I have been wanting to do something blondy-blond for a while now, but haven’t been able to muster up the appropriate level of courage to commit to the follicle colourization process with gusto.

(AKA I am a giant wimp.)

But I figured I am only twenty-nine once – I might as well do it now before the aliens arrive and I spent the next sixty-odd years of my life making origami toilet paper swans for our six-legged, intergalactic overlords.

They’ll probably want me bald as a baldy thing.

(Egg? Cue Ball? Bruce Willis?)

Yippee Kai Yay.

On the road, again

1. Fly from Halifax to Philadelphia. For 2.5 hours read Tempest Tost by Roberston Davies and laugh like a drain.

2. Wait in PHL for 45 min for your connecting flight to Seattle. Scarf down a salad with tuna but no dressing.  Lament this dearth of dressing. Wait in line for 10 minutes to purchase peanut M&Ms and yogurt covered blueberries, but abandon both when you hear your flight’s boarding has started.

3. Fly from Philly to Seattle. Sleep restlessly for most of the six hour flight. Eat a massive cinnamon bun, a bag of Chex Mix, and a very limited 100 calorie Pepperidge Farm cookie snack pack. Read more Robertson Davies. Doze.

4. Feel like a creeper, because as you try to look out the window – to watch the beautiful night lights as you descend into Seatac – you realize that you are leaning just a little too close to the man sitting to your left.

5. Exit the plane, and head straight for the Park N’ Fly pick-up station. Embrace the cold as it hits your recycled air drained skin. Breathe deeply.

6. Board the Park N’ Fly shuttle. Bounce along the highway until you reach the parking lot. Decide who will drive the first leg of the excursion home.

7. Pay for 9 days worth of car storage.

8. Settle into the passenger seat. Tell your love that even though it’s 11:30 at night, and you have quite a ways to go just to get home, it still feels like a grand adventure. Also let him know that you will switch as soon as he wants a break.

9. Get on the I-5.

10. Relish in the late-night beauty of it all. Talk little. Feel close.

11. Encounter fog. A lot of it.

12. Pull off for gas. Despair about the fact that the closed gas station doesn’t have a bathroom. Pee in the bushes. Fear that someone is either going to come grab you, or, alternatively, take damning photos of you squatting in the bushes.

13. Get back on the freeway.

14. Start to feel drowsy. Will yourself to stay awake for the sake of your husband. Laugh a little when he tells you that he wants to switch because he too is getting tired.

15. Suggest milkshakes. They will, of course, quell hunger pains, and provide a much needed sugar rush.

16. Feel elated by how excited your husband is about the idea of milkshakes.

17. Take the first exit with fast food signs. Pull into the Wendy’s parking lot. Switch positions, and then drive into the drive-thru. Order a chocolate frosty for you, and a caramel frosty shake for your husband. Wonder what’s the difference between a frosty and frosty shake. Pay.

18. Get back on the freeway. Understand quickly that frostys were not meant to be eaten through a straw. Really flex those sucking muscles.

19. Get to the border. Literally pull up to the first (and only) agent because no one else is there. Answer three questions. Keep driving.

20. Try not to speed like a demon now that you are in your home country and so, so close to your home home.

21. Make a left, and then a right. Push the garage door opener and pull into your parking spot. Grab all your luggage and garbage and head to your front door. Wonder if the Christmas lights have been on all week. Insert your key into the door and greet your adorable cat who is prancing about your feet. Drop everything, pick her up and smother her in pats and kisses.

22. Remark that the house is freezing.

23. Ascend the stairs to your bedroom, jump into the nearest pair of pajamas. Floss and brush your teeth. Realize you left your mouth guard back at your mother’s house.

24. Wash your face.

25. Crawl into an absolutely freezing cold bed. Feel your husband’s arms around you. Tell him that your hair smells like an airplane. Feel his whole body laugh. Smile.


Once more unto the beach, dear friends

Hi loves.

Yesterday I returned from our road trip down the Oregon Coast and Ashland Shakespeare extravaganza.

We left late Thursday afternoon and chronicled much of our journey our brand-spanking new “adventure log” about which we were most excited.

Check it!

Day 1

“His name was Visser. He is an Animorph killer.” This was Marc’s conclusion as we pulled away from our unblinking boarder guard and entered the United States.

Even with the gods spitting on our windshield, our spirits soared, along to the sweet, sweet tunes of Spoon (and other musical greats), recently turned into a travelling CD.

With one hundred miles to Seattle we would be comfortably ensconced in the Sheraton by 6:30. Then whiskey and bitters (definitely), would be enjoyed, but first, and most imminent: McDonalds.

Upon our arrival, Marc got us upgraded to a superior room, however we will have to re-mortgage our home to pay off the blasted valet parking.

For forty-four dollars I half expected them to wash and detail the car, or at the very least gift us with a free bottle of eight dollar gummi bears.

After settling in, it was time to don our fancy duds and head to the hills for dinner.

Mental note: bringing up rum running with a rather clueless concierge will not make your question regarding speakeasys come across any clearer. However, we are now equipped with the knowledge that it is illegal in the state of Washington to operate an establishment that serves only alcohol in the absence of food stuffs.

The more you know kids.

In the end delicious food and drink were enjoyed at the Zig Zag Cafe and Sushi Cucina.

To protect ourselves from the fat raindrops littering the downtown core we purchased a small umbrella before traipsing about like two love sick teenagers in our spit-shined finery, stopping at every street light to clasp hands and kiss.

Day 2

The day broke as so many previous – Marc up ages before myself, passing the time lost in the familiar and comforting pages of a book on magic (or is it of magic?). Let’s say both.

Once my lazy bones jones arose from my bed of rest, we ventured out in search of sustenance and a map of Oregon.

We found both.

After a brief tour of a number of different Seattle neighbourhoods, we reconnected with the I-5 and learned the increasingly obvious lesson that in this part of the world it doesn’t matter where you are headed, or what time of day it is, you will probably encounter massive highway congestion.

Do not try to fight this, or understand why it happens – just embrace it as a fact of life and move on.

To pass the time we tried to name as many states as possible. We got to 47.

At the I-5 exit to get to highway 30 (our route to meet up with the Oregon coast), it started to become clear that I had not really thought through just how far the two of us would be driving to get to our intended destination – South Beach Provincial Park.

Marc, frustrated by the slow pace of his fellow drivers, super speedwayed his way to a one hundred and sixty dollar fine.

It was all going so well until the state trooper (who may just be the nicest law enforcement official to exist ever) saw my bruised body and immediately began to ask questions.

I quickly assured that I was one tough mudder (copyright) and that we were actually celebrating our four year wedding anniversary (in hopes that she might write off the ticket).

She didn’t.

And then it started to rain. A LOT.

By the time we arrived at our campground, the mosquitoes were out in force, sucking the life force right out of us (and through two layers of pants at that!) However, it was nothing that some five dollar wine and marshmallows couldn’t fix.

The ocean there was beautiful and brilliant in its majesty, but also frightening in its ferocity.

We respect but fear the waves.

And that night you could hear Poseidon’s song.

Day 3

This day must be changed in the way that it is described from ordinary language into one of superlatives. It was epic on many extraordinary levels.

First, followed by swarms of Jurassic-sized mosquitoes, we managed to break camp in the most expedited of fashions and be on our merry.

However, this meant we skipped the usual “morning prepper” for Sergeant Ethel, namely a cup of joe, so we then had to attempt to locate an “Espresso Shack” that accepted plastic or non-specific currency; this all happened on our way to the aptly named and hugely disappointing Little Switzerland – big on pastoral beauty, low on amenities.

Anyway, following a quick pit stop just off of Seal Rock, the Sargeant settled down to do some hardcore driving (approximately 500 clicks – metric wise) whilst we jabbered about politics, upbringings, and the identity of our missing states – Missouri, New Hampshire and Colorado, natch.

Much, much later we managed to out-drive the monsoon conditions and found ourselves at the hospitable Emigrant Lake, where we victualed and had a bathe in preparation for our evening out with the Bard.

Day 4

An azure blue has replaced the downtrodden grey that marked the worst of yesterday’s weather.

We woke to dry skies – I made tea and Marc quickly set about drying our thoroughly soaked camping chairs.

More java was procured in town (and with a smoothie – Marc’s summer drink of choice) and we joined up with an actor’s Q & A session, where he spoke about his time with the festival and answered our question’s on a myriad of topics.

I wanted to know more about the tricky balance of delivering a show that pleases the audience, but also breathes new life into much love, and much interpreted productions.

(What I really wanted to ask was why, in Henry V, was the French envoy dresses as an extra in a Paula Abdul music video.)

After our walk about town, we returned to the campsite and swan, sunned, and shimmied to our heart’s content.

Day 5

I can pick apart the rotten red rock with my fingertips; if I sat here long enough maybe I could erode it down to the level of the sand.

Looking Northwest, I see that the peninsula is falling back into the sea in such a way that a humped needle eye of this same rock is looking back at me.

As soon as I  characterize or anthropomorphize the earth in this way I can’t help thinking how there have always been people here, probably longer than the needle’s eye.

I wonder, how many of them, sitting here facing the endless gray lullabye that kills and feeds, washes and deforms, endures – how many thought simply – “okay” – and didn’t build higher or travel further, or settle deeper.

They just crumbled the rock and imagined a face in the sea.

Day 6

Laughs. Love. Happiness.