high-five yourself!

I was feeling inexplicably joyful as I walked to my seat down my first flight’s narrow aisle, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. Call it a habit, a good deed, an impulse, when I’m in a good mood, I like to share it. But before I reached my seat, something caught my attention. There was a person a few rows ahead pulling at her cuffs, fixing her bracelet, shrugging her sweater into place and brushing her hair back just like my friend Esther. Her yellow hair was so similar, and yet I had said goodbye to her the night before with full knowledge that she was leaving on an early flight the next morning and I wouldn’t see her again until the middle of next week. Yet the resemblance was uncanny. I waited. Hoped. And when she looked up and I saw it was her, a rush of excitement charged through my body. An EEG machine probably would have registered Christmas I was so excited! I felt like I had the funniest joke to tell and lacked the patience or self-control to spit it out in any articulate manner. I yelled her name and awaited her shock and excitement. It was there, but nowhere near mine. But then, I actually said, out loud, in front of a plane full of bored and indifferent passengers, “This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me!” As the words formed and eventually made their way through my vocal chords and out my mouth, even before I uttered the first sound, I was well aware that this was not, in fact, the best thing that had ever happened to me. Not really even close. But I decided to go with it because, quite honestly, who’s counting? In that moment, in a crowded airplane aisle full of strangers and reluctant travellers anticipating an uneventful and lonely journey, seeing the smiling face of one of my favorite people was the best!

I can’t help but think that in the end, all moments can be this awesome. Why judge and compare, or create hierarchies of awesomeness? All we have and all we know is what is happening right now, so why not let this very moment be the greatest thing that’s ever happened? Seriously, reading this, right now, is the greatest! Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Just enjoy it, no one else cares. So go high-five yourself and have an awesome day!

Editor's note: my friend slept the entire way and we barely talked on the other end, but I'm still smiling about it.

from awkward pose to awesome pose!

Today I decided to squeeze in a yoga class after having lunch with a friend across town. I’d only been to this particular place once before, so I wasn’t really familiar with the facilities, the sign-in process, where you put your shoes ’n shit. I was a little disoriented to find all the rooms empty, but I was still a little early, so decided to get changed and await further instruction. While I was changing, I heard someone else come in who seemed to be greeted by a voice with a hint of authority. I felt reassured, but when I came out, there was no responsible party to be found. The woman who had just arrived, also there for her second class, kindly showed me the ropes as she had just learned them, and I continued to wait around awkwardly reading the bulletins on the walls. Five minutes after the class was supposed to start, there was still only one other woman there, which made three of us. By ten after, I went and knocked on the door at the very end of the hall. Apparently there was some sort of teacher training going on. My knock was received with an abrupt, “WHAT!” Then a laughter-infused, “Come in.” They glare-smiled at me as I opened the door, jokingly upset about the interruption. I’m never quite sure how to take gestures like this because it feels more like a weak attempt to cover up real pissed off-edness with lame sarcasm than any sort of actual joke, but—I digress. A woman came out to help, but only succeeded in confirming the uncertainty of the situation by checking the website (why didn't we think of that? oh wait, we did. thanks) and calling the owner (who had no knowledge of a cancellation).

Fifteen minutes after the class was supposed to start, one woman decided to call it a Sunday, but the other lady and I looked down at our bare feet and figured, when in tights, stretch! So we plopped down our mats and proceeded to breathe deeply and crack our bones. I told her about this cool yoga website I’d been using to practice at home. Quicker than I could say downward facing dog, she had pulled up a video and placed her iPhone between us saying, “Do you mind?” By this point, there was really no decision to be made. I had untied the ropes, placed my foot firmly on the dock and set the boat in motion. Besides, the experience was worth far more than any story of somewhere more productive I could be. Not to mention the pattern completion of actually squeezing in some yoga.

So that’s what we did. In a big empty room with shiny hardwood floors, Indian fabrics lining the walls and statues of goddesses as our audience, we did our yoga practice bowing to a leopard print iPhone (we kicked it over for the standing poses). We also got to know each other a bit and even came up with the genius premise for a comedy where two women get locked in a yoga studio overnight with nothing but yoga props and an iPhone to pass the time. Actually, now that I say that out loud, it sounds a bit different, but I’ll leave that to your own conscience.

I wanted to share because I love little experiences like this. Ones that can so easily be overlooked or passed by, like throwing out an important letter in a pile of bills. I could have decided to go home when the teacher didn’t show without hesitation, but when I came to that fork in the road, for some reason I chose the uncertain path over the familiar one. You never know what’s going to happen, but that’s the beauty of it. You might solve a problem, you may even create a new one; you might make a new friend, or quite possibly an enemy; but in the very least, you will likely end up with a funny story to tell. And that's always worth it.

talking about kevin, talking about life

I watched a film last night that left a deep impression on me. Not only due to the dark and challenging content, but because of something kind of funny that happened while watching it. I went over to a friend’s house, snuggled up with a blanket in front of her high-definition tv, and felt the typical anticipation I feel before I watch a critically acclaimed movie with a-list stars and a difficult premise. I knew We Need to Talk About Kevin was somewhat of an indie flick, but when we started watching it, the “indie-ness” became wildly distracting. As the movie progressed, it continued to feel like someone’s home movie of a community theater production. My enthusiasm turned to disappointment, but more than anything I was confused. I genuinely wanted it to be good and had heard good things, so it didn’t make sense that it would have such poor production quality, especially with technology these days. I even tried, and failed, to reason how the poor quality could be an artistic choice. So despite my initial optimism, the drama, sadly, kept falling flat. In my mind, and also out loud, I criticized the cinematographer, questioned the director, and furrowed my brow in disbelief. I was frustrated that a movie with so much potential, from the concept to the characters to the actors, would cut corners like that. That is, until another friend came over and, upon hearing our commentary and watching us shake our heads, started googling tv settings and resolution. He hypothesized the quality had to do with the different ratio of what the movie was filmed on and  the tv settings... or something! He changed some settings as I looked on skeptically (but hopefully). Lo and behold, the color changed to a cool, almost washed out and stylized blue-ish tone, much more polished looking and fitting for the theme. The movie suddenly transformed from a daytime soap opera to something I might actually see in an art house movie theatre.

Still, something about it felt like a first year film school project (no offence film students!). We watched for a little longer and just when we were about three quarters of the way through, my friend made another breakthrough in his research. He had another hypothesis and, despite his uncertainty, I encouraged him to experiment... just to see. (Truth be told, I desperately wanted it to be better. While the others had given up and filed it under weird, I still had hope.) Again, he searched through the controls and finally found one that adjusted the picture speed and turned some fancy function off. Sorry I can’t report any of the technical details. All I can tell you is that with a flick of the menu’s back button, it became a whole different film.

Suddenly, I was emotionally engaged. The music gave me goosebumps. Tilda Swinton’s gaze became captivating. I could see deep into the characters’ souls. And the film developed a dramatic weight that felt like I’d just been thrown a bowling ball. Firstly, I was excited. As I said, I really wanted it to be good and I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t.

But what is even more profound to me is how seemingly simple and “inconsequential” effects can drastically change a film’s quality and potency. To be specific, the speed and the filter changed my whole experience. I finished the film feeling satisfied and moved by the performances. That’s when my mind began to expand on this epiphany. If you look at your life as a film, your surroundings a set in which the drama of your existence is played out, the filters through which we see the world and the pace at which we move through it are incredibly important. They can dramatically change our experience of our selves and our lives - positively and negatively.

Have you ever been in a state where you felt completely on track? As if everything around you was happening on cue and you were standing exactly on your mark? Sometimes I feel this way waiting for a subway train or brushing my teeth; other times, it’s at an amazing concert or lying in shavasana at yoga. The reality is, the time and place is irrelevant. It’s my own internal settings that allow me to experience any moment exactly as it is: perfect. It was a good reminder that next time I’m feeling dissatisfied or critical, rather than blaming or trying to figure out why, all I have to do is mess around with my internal settings. After all, finding the right hue, the right speed and just the right emotional soundtrack can completely change the way you “talk about Kevin.”

"When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves." - Viktor E. Frankl

adam yauch + a humble reminder

Hearing the news of Adam Yauch’s death hit me in an unexpected way today. Seeing a facebook post that read “RIP MCA” led me to investigate and sure enough the twitter and tumblr-sphere were alive with RIP’s and condolences. I would say my fan cred lies in that grey area between die-hard and clueless, probably just like most people within my age demographic. I know all their hits and most serve as anthems for one life phase or other. The Beasties were a staple of suburban teenage-dom and discovering them was a rite of passage for any white kid trying to make amends with their rebellious streak. I remember thinking the music video for “Sabotage” was brilliant because it was a music video but it also pretended to look like a movie (how clever!), and it was campy, self-aware and bad-ass. I think that was the first video my friends and I recreated once we got our grubby little hands on a video camera, donning hipster moustaches before they were a thing. Anyway, having one of your adolescent idols pass away is inevitable and not all that uncommon. I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I cried, and for months was scribbling “K.C.R.I.P.” on all my notebooks. The sadness and disillusionment with life came with the teenaged territory and we wallowed in our esteemed rockstars’ woes. Meanwhile we saved our lunch money for concert tickets and used our creative energy to make fashion statements out of safety pins and try not to care too much when our purple hair dye washed out and made it look grey.

So what does this have to do with the Beastie Boys and Adam Yauch’s death? The Beasties were different. They were positive and empowered. They were smart and worldly. Admittedly they had their misguided attempts in the world of role-model-dom, but they weren’t famous for their struggles. They were famous for being fucking rad, knowing how to party and having sick rhymes. And just like they didn’t live for their struggles, Adam didn’t die by his. He died from something that can happen to any of us. He died from something that happens to distant relatives and friends from high school’s parents. Or our heroes.

Obviously I’m not the same age as Adam, but sometimes sharing an imagined identity forms a much stronger connection than how long you’ve been alive. I can relate way more with the Beasties and their frame of mind than I can with a lot of people who share my graduation date or who watched the same after-school specials. I feel deeply saddened by his death. I feel humbled by the reality that no amount of external anything - fame, fortune, friendship or fly beats - can keep us from the inevitable. Adam’s death is a reminder of that; that thing we all know, but conveniently avoid as we put things off or fail to tell our fellow humans we love them. I hope he was able to be with the people he loved during his final days, and reflected on his life believing he’d done alright. I truly believe we all do our best, but allowing ourselves to embrace that truth can be the hardest of all. In the end, we all just gotta fight… for our right… well, you know. Peace and love in the next world Adam.

love in the time of villa carlotta

Most of the time nostalgia waltzes in of its own accord, like a sizzling waft of the neighbor’s barbecue, but sometimes I get this curious itch to seek out a particular time from my past. I’m not sure “time” is the right word. It’s usually an object, a song, a place or a person, but it brings me back to a particular time and, more importantly, a particular feeling. By no means am I one to dwell in the past, but I think revisiting these feelings is important. It’s easy to surround ourselves with certain situations and get lost in familiar patterns, sometimes losing sight of what got us there along the way. The memories might be painful, joyous, sad or exciting, but they are part of us nonetheless. Accessing those experiences is, I believe, a way to keep ourselves connected to all the different facets of ourselves and deepen our wisdom. This morning I saw a link on twitter to a celebrity’s favorite old building in Hollywood. Immediately I got a little excited hoping it was the same as my favorite building, the one I resided in for the better half of 2006: the Villa Carlotta. Alas, Moby’s favorite building is the 7th Day Adventist Church, but at this point my synapses had started firing and they weren’t about to stop. A flood of memories came rushing into my brain. The incredibly serendipitous way I got the apartment in the first place (people have been on the waiting list for years to get a spot) and the fact that I leased it from one of the celebrity carpenters on Trading Spaces, so it had all the latest appliances and was pretty nicely furnished. I began to wonder if there are still tiny bb pellets in the cracks of the aging floorboards. I had a birthday party where I was generously gifted my very own bb machine gun. The night started off innocently enough, with tentative and willing victims standing far from their shooter, and getting carefully pelted with equal parts pain and excitement. As the night wore on, however, let’s just say “don’t try this at home kids!”

When I moved in, the previous tenant (a cool young German writer who I became friends with and was working for Michael Bay, I wonder what he’s up to…) warned me about the neighbor below being a grumpy old curmudgeon who complained about stomping and too much noise. So before I had aforementioned birthday party, I slid a little card under his door warning him of the event and letting him know to call me if anything bothered him; basically an advanced apology. Even before the night came, he wrote me a note thanking me for my gesture and encouraging me to enjoy my party. From that experience, I learned that most of the time, grumpy old curmudgeons just want to feel considered and treated like human beings; and for the most part, there’s no such thing as grumpy old curmudgeons, just lonely people who want to feel cared for and considered.

I had heard rumours about the building being haunted, and certainly if there ever was a setting for a classic ghost story flick, this was the perfect place. There were odd noises, flickering lights and the decor likely hasn’t changed since it was built; added to maybe, but never redone. I’ve always felt a little nervous in new places I’ve lived for the first couple nights. I think there’s a natural reaction to unfamiliarity that breeds thoughts like, someone's breaking in my door!?! You need to acclimatize your brain to the noises and ambience so it doesn't trigger your fight or flight. Having said that, during my first few nights at the Villa Carlotta I had some pretty, I don’t know what to call them, “spiritual” experiences? I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or simply the power of the human brain to generate whole body sensory experiences, but I woke up (or at least entered that weird in between waking and sleep state) completely paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I felt petrified, and I became aware of another presence in the room, or what my mind perceived as such. The thoughts I had were in the vein of, “I need to show them I’m not afraid. I need to face this on my own. I need to make peace and they’ll leave me alone.” I immediately vowed not to have any overnight visitors (that lasted a little while) and face these demons on my own. Whether they were my own demons or those haunting the Villa Carlotta, I’ll never know, but it was a really intense experience, and made me ever the more fond of the place.

Another thing that made the building unique was the manager, Tom. He was incredibly friendly, jovial, mostly drunk, and would stop at nothing to give you a hard time (all in the name of humor, of course). I bond well with characters like this, so we hit it off immediately. I also paid my rent on time, so we were in good shape. I had numerous interactions with him during my stay there, but my favorite one was when he called me out of the blue months after I’d moved back to Vancouver. When I saw his number come up, I couldn’t even guess what he’d wanted. For some reason I decided not to pick up, but later I got this rambling message about how I hadn’t paid my rent on time and that he was upset with me and he wasn’t sure what to do, etc. I immediately called the guy I had leased it from, fearing that somehow they didn’t know I moved out and that some big misunderstanding had taken place, but he immediately burst into laughter and said, “He’s just drunk and fucking with you.” I was totally shocked. Not that it’s not completely in line with my sense of humor, but it was so random and out of the blue. I loved Tom a little more after that.

Living at the Villa Carlotta also amounted to many nights spent eating pasta and talking about poetry at La Poubelle, drinking coffee and "working” on my laptop at the Bourgeois Pig, spending whatever savings I didn’t have on used books from Counterpoint, waking up at 7 a.m. to move my car on street cleaning days (or getting tickets, I alternated), getting a constant view of the bustling and mysterious Scientology Celebrity Center, and being part of a small and eclectic scene of young actors, artists, musicians and writers. I used to be at parties with Katy Perry, who was working hard on some demo, I heard she had a good voice. Same goes for others, both previously unknown, still unknown, once known or flat-out famous. It didn’t really matter though, we were all just trying to make sense of our lives. Find meaning in books about philosophy, art and history and try to find a sense of place in a city that seemed to feed off superficiality and satiation. As you can tell, my nostalgia for the time is rich with fond and happy memories and laced with some of my richest moments of existential angst. I treasure all of them, and find it pretty frickin’ cool that I got to be part of a history that lives on not only in my mind, but in all the people and stories that weaved themselves in and out of that building.

pretty sure i won mysticon

Nearly a year ago, I got an email through my website inviting me to a convention in Roanoke, Virginia. Not knowing where this was nor anything about the con, I was a little hesitant, and put it in my “get to it when I get around to it” folder (otherwise known as the abyss). That is, until I got the second email, just checking to see if I got the first, and if I was interested. This should have been my first clue, though I wouldn’t truly learn it until later, that when Carla Brindle (president and PR director of MystiCon) wants something, she doesn’t stop until she has it, someone  has it, or she finds out it’s physically impossible. This, I must say, beyond even cleverness and wit, is something I respect tremendously. Without dwelling in the details, I will tell you there’s no way I would have made it to Virginia without her perseverance, creativity, and sheer will to make it happen. I really want to thank her for not only persisting so I could come to MystiCon and have an amazing time, but also showing me how obstacles are only road blocks if you let them. Yay Carla! The whole weekend was packed with super fun people, panels and podcasts, oh my! I often feel like a broken record when I come back from these things, but seriously, everyone was so nice! I guess it makes sense. People don't generally go to a con without a pretty high starting level of excitement and enthusiasm, but it's definitely contagious. If I had one complaint from the weekend, it would have been the lack of dance par-tay. Friday night I had my dancing shoes on and was raring to go, but the sad, confetti-covered floor of the ballroom was totally empty. I’m guessing there was a party somewhere, but it was probably in someone’s room and you probably weren’t allowed to enter without proper larping credentials (look it up, mom). Thankfully the hotel bar had its own club with a handful of locals getting down, so I did my best to dance it up and managed to conjure at least a tiny reputation for myself the following day.

The next night was probably the best surprise of all though. I met the  boys from Bella Morte at the opening ceremonies and quickly had them flagged for some serious radness factor. Singing an acoustic version of “Earth Angel” to a room full of anxious and excited con-goers was a ballsy move, and absolutely no indication of how hard they rock out in their live show. If you haven't already, you should definitely check 'em out and get their new album. And definitely see them live if you can! The fact that they dedicated a cover of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” to me, and completely pulled it off, and totally embarrassed me, and were hilarious and heartfelt and awesome, pretty much made them my new favorite band. Not to mention that they’re just great. Did I mention they're great?

Anyway, thanks to everyone who came, everyone who made it happen, and everyone who hung out in the hotel lobby when the fire alarm went off at 2am! (That means not you Andy!)

Oh! I nearly forgot, I did a podcast while I was there too! We had a really ridiculous and good time. Not sure how that translates to aural entertainment, but I’m sure I made a fool of myself, so at least there's that: Geek Radio Daily

be nice to your _______ (self)

I just re-read the very first interview I did ever. I’m collecting press for my visa application and it’s proved a special kind of challenge—reading about yourself and the things you’ve written. A pressure mounts gradually, fuelled by petty fears and insecurities. A type of pressure typically only relieved by hearty belly laughs between friends, or a cathartic cry over the helpless nature of it all. In this case, I did both. And then I read the interview. Whatever judgments lingered were quickly dissolved when I read the part where I said my age: 21. That’s seven years ago. A quarter of my life ago. I was a baby. My words were laced with innocence and I read on with the curiosity of a mother reading her child’s poetry. No need for perfection, only subtle cues indicating where I was at, how I was feeling and what makes me me. It ended up being a really cool experience. I felt like I could accept a part of myself I’ve always avoided looking at. The innocent part. The part that really wants to do well, sound smart, have people like me, whatever. But that’s not who I am. Who I am is in my decision to even share myself in that way, my desire to make meaningful connections and continue questioning what I’m doing and why. I thought it was a sweet interview in the end. And it inspired me to think about why it takes seven years to be able to feel compassion for my journey, to not need to meet some ridiculous standard. Why not look at what I did a year ago, a month ago, a minute ago, with the same acceptance and understanding? It’s said that time helps put things in perspective, but how much time? By the time we even become aware of our experience, it’s already in the past, so we always have a choice of how you want to feel about it—with light-hearted curiosity or the fear-driven control of an over-protective mother. Whether it’s an important presentation or a macaroni necklace, we’re all doing our best to find ourselves and create meaningful expressions. So be nice. I’m certainly going to try.

If you’re curious, you can read my interview here.

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." - Antoine Saint-Exupery

resolutions are my friend and i love them

New Year’s resolutions. I don’t know, I find the term overused to the point of mutilation these days. Often more referenced as a mockery than any serious act of commitment, my upper lip unwittingly snarls at the mere mention of it. And it’s not that I haven’t tried! Last year I sat myself down and expressed my desires for the approaching year—how I wanted to live better, do better and ultimately be better. I was actually a little nervous to go back and read it. Both because I’m always nervous to go back and read my writing for fear that I sound like an arrogant a-hole, but mostly because I was concerned I had been a total failure. Despite my hesitation, I dug it up and was actually pleasantly surprised. I don’t think I sound too arrogant, and I’ve made progress in all the areas I wrote about. Sure, there have been failures, but I’ve been far more consistent in my commitments, focused on building better relationships and have even developed a practice of doing things I’m not amazing at, and enjoying it even! Last year I performed a song onstage, something I never thought I could do. And I even read a whole chapter book! (Kidding, sorta.) So I actually feel pretty good about the little wins, as well as some other breakthroughs I’ve had throughout out the year. Still, the whole notion of making “resolutions” at New Year’s launches me into depressed teenager mode, shrugging at the dinner table when asked about my day. “I dunno.” I went to one of my favorite yoga studios for a special two-hour class today. I figured it would be a good way to start the year—to connect, reflect, feel strong and push myself. I love this particular teacher too, she has a way of dropping pearls of ancient wisdom mixed with her own experiences in the most humble and accessible way. However, as you can imagine with any yoga class that adds spiritual and philosophical teachings to the physical practice, it was only a matter of time before “New Year’s resolutions” came into play. In my head I was like, “nooo, you can’t make me.” But I’m also the type of person who, when I engage in something, I want to do it full on. My mantra is typically to save the judging for later and just go with it; which, upon reflection, has lent itself to some pretty interesting stories, but that’s another day. So I reluctantly picked an “intention” for the new year, came up with some random words that seemed sufficient for the occasion. I was even feeling a little self-righteous about my active participation until she suddenly announced what we were going to do next: “partner work.” *Gasp* And I was doing so well. To me, this is akin to attending a poetry reading and being told you have to get onstage. Like, I didn’t sign up for this.

I’m not even sure what’s at the root of my resistance to it, but I’m sure it’s mostly to do with social anxieties and the awkwardness of touching someone’s sweaty yoga body as they put themselves in vulnerable positions, in your face. Usually, I’m scanning the room in my head for my most preferable candidate, all the while judging myself for being so superficial. But this time we were automatically partnered with the person across from us. For me, this meant a shaggy haired middle-aged man with a sort of stoner vibe and an oddly endearing boyish awkwardness. I tried to make eye contact with him to show him I was totally cool with it, but he never looked at me, at least not when I was looking. So it came time for us to touch and stretch each other and I stubbornly forced myself to embrace the experience. And that’s when it hit me: none of the shit that’s going on in my head is actually happening! I let go of my insecurities, squeezed his sweaty palm, breathed deeply and embraced him affectionately as if we were old friends. It felt great! Not only did I “get through” the thing I don’t like, I actually learned to enjoy it, maybe even love it  little. I love doing partner work! Haha. This is a revelation, because at the end of the day, it’s just better to love shit.

So I’ve discovered my New Year’s resolution. As with most things in my life, not without great resistance, but I come by it honestly. My resolution this year is to embrace the things I fear and learn to love them. It’s not enough just to grit your teeth and get it over with. You need to open yourself and find a way to love what frightens you, make peace with it, invite it into your home, serve it tea, give it a massage, you get the idea. Only then can it seize to have any power. I think sometimes we aren’t even aware of what scares us because we’ve developed such incredible strategies to avoid the discomfort. Whether it’s certain types of people, environments, activities, abilities, we have lists of excuses to keep us safe in our comfort zone and give our fears the nourishment to smother our experience of love, and of life. Kinda makes me want to take my inner teenager out for pizza, aaaw.

I recently watched the film Another Earth. It’s a spectacular film and I highly recommend it, but there’s one particular scene that really stood out for me. The main character tells a story about a Russian cosmonaut who... well, you should watch it. It demonstrates what I’m trying to express quite beautifully. (Also, the dude kinda looks like the guy from yoga. Weird!) Find what you resist, and learn to love it. Become friends with your fears and you will gain ultimate freedom. Happy New Year friends!

Shooting #Catfish in a Barrel

***I wrote this a while ago and just re-discovered it. It brings up questions I'm always curious about, so I thought I'd share and hear what you think*** One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was around the time when there were all sorts of scandalous reports challenging the accuracy of James Frey’s memoirs, A Million Little Pieces and his follow up, My Friend Leonard.  Jt Leroy, the troubled, young, writing wunderkind, had also just been outed as a creative scheme with a middle-aged San Francisco woman at the helm. In all honesty, despite my intellectual musings about how all our stories are ultimately fiction, I felt sad and disappointed, and a bit of a fool. I had devoured James Frey’s A Milion Little Pieces. I cried when his words sang into the hollows of my own despair; I sighed when his imagery echoed the experiences of my own father’s struggle with substance abuse; I laughed when his self-conscious inner monologues sounded all too familiar. Needless to say, I was moved. Just as I was moved reading JT Leroy’s far more raw and provocative works. Evidently, I’d read all his books before he became a counter-culture icon; Asia Argento directing and starring in the film version of one of his books. I was a fan. I had friends who were “friends” with him. I’d even met him at a film festival party in Toronto. I was too shy to introduce myself or share how much I’d enjoyed his work. As was typical, he was wearing massive sunglasses, a hat and I think even a wig. He had a whole persona. He was brilliant, shy, tortured and innocent all at once. That’s what made him so appealing.

So what does it mean when our illusions are shattered? When what we think is real—people, stories, events—turns out to be fiction? Does it matter? Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. If we don’t have truth, then what are we left with? Well, I think that’s the most important question of all, because in the end, there is no truth. The past doesn’t exist in the way we think it does, or want to believe it does. There’s no magical history book that documents life’s events, ensuring an accurate record we can reference at will. No, the past only exists in our experience, in the present. And since time is always moving forward (presumably), and the present is always changing, so are we—along with our thoughts and memories. So when I ask again, does it matter if our stories are fact or fiction? Does it make our tears any less real if we discover a tale to be tall? My answer is no. It shouldn’t. Or at least I don’t think it should, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel compelled to protest against false advertising (which is really the underlying moral issue). No, I have those feelings because I’m a human being and I want to feel like I know what’s real and what’s not. It even makes me more survivable to know the difference between a real tiger and an Imax 3D one. The only real danger is when I’m so afraid of the feeling of unpredictability that I think the tiger isn’t real when it is.

I feel like I’m sort of shooting fish in a barrel here, since I was fortunate enough to play a character on tv who was faced with this exact struggle. Très apropos. Everything she knew to be true was dismantled right before her eyes. I mean, we’ve all had experiences when the truth stung, when the cold, dismal reality of someone not being who we thought left us shattered and untrusting, but you have to admit Cally met a particularly unfortunate fate. Not only was her husband not who he said *spoiler alert* (she was torn up at the idea of him having a measly affair), but he turned out to be the epitome of everything she feared and had fought against her entire life. He wasn’t just not human, he was the enemy. And he wasn’t just her husband, he was the father of her child and the only person she ever truly trusted. So yeah, pretty harsh. Needless to say, she didn’t handle it very well, and who can blame her? But it’s unsettling to recognize how much our identity is wrapped up in what we think we know. Not to get too spiritual or anything, but I have a hard time believing we’re solely made up of atoms and energy that ferments into some sort of “consciousness.” I believe we are more than just our bodies, more than our minds even. And if we knew this, maybe we wouldn’t disintegrate if we discovered something we thought was true to be false. We would simply be “ourselves” with a new perspective. Is that really so bad? It certainly feels like it at times, but perhaps that’s the beauty of being human—discovering the truth beyond “knowledge.”

So I just finished watching the movie Catfish. *spoiler alert - watch it!* Let me just start by saying I thought it was brilliant. Intentional or not, the fact it pissed people off and caused speculation as to its “authenticity” is win/win. I was so uncomfortable through the whole thing. I was uncomfortable with what was happening in the film, enthralled with its characters and their unlikely story, and I was uncomfortable with what was happening in my living room, frustrated with my own inability categorize what I was seeing and make sense of my own emotions. I fell into this recursive loop of existential uncertainty, only to be sucked in by scenes where I thought to myself, “You couldn’t make this shit up!” Only to be violently pulled in the other direction, thinking, "There's no way this is real!" I’m not going to give an opinion as to whether I think the film is real or fake because, quite honestly, I don’t care, and it doesn't matter. That’s the best part! It was so well done and the questions it raised are questions we should all be asking regardless; whether it’s by projecting on people having experiences in a documentary, or whether it’s through our own experience watching a “documentary” and speculating its legitimacy. Like a chinese finger trap, hating on it only distracts you from the truth, wrapping you tighter in your own limiting and warped delusions. And yet, I am only human after all, and I would just sleep a little sounder if I knew, like, was that shit for real or what?!?!

Further reading...

review of Catfish on The Documentary Blog

musings on "authenticity" by Andrew Potter

"Jt Leroy"

James Frey on Oprah

#NYCC and me

The week post-NYCC has flown by, yet it also feels like an eternity ago. The contrast of daily life against the sci-fi and fantasy Disneyland that is New York Comic-Con, is not a transition one traverses lightly; or at least I don’t. Like emerging from the wardrobe after discovering Narnia, I’m still dusting snowflakes from my hair or, rather, quippy buttons, flyers and business cards. I met so many amazing people and went on some pretty cool adventures (some I’ll talk about here, some you might have to read about in my unauthorized biography #pretendingtobefarmoredangerousthaniam). But all in all, it was an awesomely fun, productive and exciting weekend.

Even though the media guests were sanctioned to a far away wing, I was stoked to see all the friendly and loyal fans who came by to grab an autograph, snag a t-shirt, or just to say hello. The laid-back pace was actually a welcome break. Hanging out all weekend allowed me the freedom to come and go and carry on real conversations, rather than frantically packing in a rush of autographs in just a few hours. Admittedly, I only ventured out into the madness twice. On Saturday, I naively walked around artists alley thinking it was the main attraction. A friend of mine with a comic book booth educated me on the different smells emanating from the different areas—that way if I got lost, I could navigate using my ninja olfactory skills. According to him, the publisher’s area was the most offensive, but I didn’t test his hypothesis. I chatted a bit with the cool and talented Cat Staggs, who was kind enough to give me one of her books. Apparently she’s going to be making some BSG art in the near future, so you should definitely keep an eye out. You can find more of her artwork on her site. I also tripped over Scott Adsit (Pete from 30 Rock) pimping out his precious sketchbook for artists to draw/paint/doodle/make magic in. I learned about his idea last year, but this year I actually got to see some of the fruits of his many travels and contributions from incredible artists. I’m not sure how many sketches he has in total now, but it’s an impressive amount and he’s somewhat modest about it; either that or he’s a little self-conscious about the inherent geekery in such an undertaking. I personally think it’s awesome! I also love anything that challenges the fan/celebrity separation. At the end of the day, we're all fans of something, right? And if you're not, sucks to be you! Anyway, I digress, Scott was also kind enough to be excited about my “OH MY GODS! THEY KILLED CALLY” t-shirts and even sported his very own on Sunday. If you catch him in any pics or videos that day, you’re sure to see him representin’. Thanks again Scott! If you're in the city, catch him doing Celebrity Autobiography. It sounds super hilare!

On Sunday I had the good fortune of having a dear old friend from Vancouver serve as my sidekick. So during the slow times we got to catch up and reflect on the good ol’ days kicking around Vancity. It was really nice, and always humbling to have old friends to help you remember how far you’ve come. It was also really neat to hear her perspective on the convention. She moved to NYC seven years ago and has since become a hugely successful and sought-after stylist. She loves her job, but will be the first to admit the fabric holding together the commercial and fashion industry is one of carefully constructed facades and shiny veneers. Her and I have always bonded over our mutual love and appreciation for the nerdier side of life, so it was perfectly apropos for us to unite in such a setting. Her comments on the event were both refreshing and endearing as she compared the people at the convention to the people she normally works with. Sure, they both dress up in outrageous outfits, some of them even with outlandish make-up and accessories. They both obsess over material commodities and identify themselves with their specific interests; most of them form social groups as a result of these interests. But still, there seems to be something tangibly different about these “genres,” if you will. I might be so bold as to say that sci-fi fans seem genuinely happier than my experience of fashion-industry types. But aside from that, I feel the major difference is expressed in their intent. Rather than trying to create an image in order to fit in and be liked by others, comic and sci-fi fans are expressing themselves in a way that is not typically accepted by mainstream culture, and cons are the one place they can actually share that passion with others. I don’t get the sense that con-goers are trying to be cool; in fact, it’s cool not to be cool at a con (the irony is not lost, but you get my point). To put it simply, I it seems like people at conventions come together through a shared LOVE of something, rather than a shared FEAR of something. And that's just cool.

Well that’s enough waxing philosophic for now... More to come on Baba Brinkman’s Rap Guide to Evolution, the Occupy Wall Street protests, and some more cool (mis)adventures I embarked on last weekend.

Oh, and did I mention, I KILLED it in this Black Eyed Peas dance game? KILLED. IT. :)

OH MY GODS! THEY KILLED CALLY!

You know those ideas that buzz around your brain like an annoying mosquito in the middle of the night? Well I finally swatted one of those pesky lil' buggers and made some cool t-shirts. I'm bringing the first batch to New York Comic-Con this weekend, then I'll have them available to order on my site. Thanks to my friend Adrienne for making the graphic and to the handful of friends who actually laughed when I shared the idea. Pay no mind to the unimpressed expressions on the models' faces, these shirts are guaranteed to make you smile like a mentos commercial :)

mad(der) world

Since my last post, I’ve had some time to think, reflect and gather more data about what went down Wednesday evening. Obviously my knowledge is still extremely limited, as is the nature of communication and media, but some new insight (from thoughtful friends and various blogs and publications) have helped me build a fuller picture of the situation. Unfortunately, it’s only added fuel to my fire (if you’ll pardon the metaphor), sparking further questions into the nature of humanity and how it is we can ever live in a civilized world. Apparently the atrocities were not the sole effect of too much alcohol, testosterone and broken dreams. People, some might say “anarchists” (though premeditated violence and looting doesn’t quite match my understanding of anarchism) had designs on the city before the game had even begun. Some of the rioters were known to have wreaked havoc during other events, like the Olympics and the G-20 Summit in Toronto. However, in this scenario, the authorities had no warning, no apparent reason to hire extra security and protection. In hindsight, perhaps a little naive, but I think it’s safe to say the whole city was a little high off the possibility of the Stanley Cup win and the pre-fab community that emerged as a result. That fact that “professional rioters,” if you will, instigated the violence is understandably easier to swallow than thinking Vancouver hockey fans are just incredibly poor losers. However, it is a slippery slope to point the finger at a small group and blame the rest on “mob mentality.” As most people would agree, there are such humans who live to destroy. For whatever reason, their psychodynamic has led them to derive pleasure out of performing destructive acts and they proactively seek out such experiences. These are the people we see in horror movies, behind bars, or read about in psychology textbooks. These people are a threat to society and the safety of other individuals, there is no doubt about that. However, we also have this other contingent: people who are, by most accounts, well-meaning, law-abiding, good-natured citizens. These people don’t stand out as being violent or aggressive, perhaps even less so than someone who expresses their anger openly. But under certain circumstances, these people are willing to completely defy all their usual rules and give total control over to their emotions. I’m sure I’m going to get shit for this, but I believe these people are more dangerous than the so-called anarchists. I say this because they are invisible. They are not stating any adverse principles or ideals, they are not rejecting the status quo, they are accepting it, playing along, until someone gives them permission, and then they’re completely unpredictable.

I think it’s good for all of us to consider our boundaries, our ethics, and what we think is right. There is so much we do without even thinking, just because our parents said, or society says, or because it’s always been that way. But when those structures aren’t there, it’s easy to get disoriented; unfamiliar territory and intense emotional charge can create a lot of distress. I tend to think events like this are the result of a culturally accepted lack of thinking, lack of evaluation, lack of ethics and, again, lack of love. Not to get all hippie dippie, but if you think about a time you felt intense love, maybe with a loved one or after a beautiful film, do you think you could then go out and throw a newspaper dispenser through a store window? I couldn’t. Only with feelings of intense despair, fear and desperation could I imagine doing such an act. It’s like they say about pit bulls, they’re not inherently mean dogs, but their owners train them to be vicious. Well we need to train ourselves to not be vicious, we need to train ourselves to love. We need to embrace our fears; not run away from our negative emotions, but rather understand them. Otherwise we’ll end up with a society plagued with of well-meaning, but under the right circumstances willing to destroy everything they’ve built, individuals. It sort of reminds me of a child who destroys his own lego castle because he doesn’t get his way. Perhaps that’s the most apropos metaphor of all because at the end of the day, I think we all have a lot of growing up to do.

On a separate note, if you can identify anyone in this video, please let me know.

mad world

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine in Vancouver. No, that’s a lie. After I hung up the phone, before I sat down at my computer, I wept. The events that took place after last night’s hockey game have left many in shock and despair, myself included. I feel shaken and disturbed by the gravity of the violence, but most of all, I feel humbled. We like to consider ourselves civilized. We walk around and talk as if we’ve evolved past our most primitive instincts, and yet it is clear we have not. You can put shoes and lipstick on a lion, but it does not make her any less vicious. It is in a lion’s nature to be violent and fight for survival. Humans also have the capacity to be violent and at some point it did help us survive as a species. However, we have also developed this incredible gift called intellect. This gift allows us to save food for the winter, to work together and share resources and, arguably, it allows us to love. We have this incredible ability to project into another person’s experience, to imagine their struggle as our own, to empathize and want to help them—these are uniquely human qualities. In my opinion, they are what make us human. When we suppress this nature, when we indulge in fear and anger, I'm not sure I know what we are. We certainly aren’t embracing our humanity, but I'm not sure I'd say we’re animals either. An animals’ intent is pure, they are simply doing what they need to do to survive. We, on the other hand, have the luxury of living with the fruits of intellect: technology, science and entertainment. We no longer need to live in fear of being eaten by a lion in the middle of the night. We no longer need to kill a boar with our bare hands. In fact, most modern citizens couldn't bring themselves to do such an act. So if we have this beautiful capacity for compassion, what does it mean when we don’t use it? Or beyond that, when we destroy it? It would be arrogant for me to blame the rioters. I can’t say I don’t feel angry, but mostly I feel a deep sadness. To imagine seeing the world in my own image and wanting to destroy it so desperately and passionately must be a painful existence. To live a life with that much repressed anger and aggression is almost beyond my comprehension, but still I try to understand. It’s not a simple problem; certainly not one with any easy solutions. But in order to understand it, we must not isolate the so-called perpetrators. There are the people enacting the violence outwardly and then there is a society that supports repression and socially acceptable violence. Our media is infested with violence, and I don’t mean reports on murders. I mean gossip, dishonorable discourse and objectification. On some level, I am embarrassed at how shocked I am. Why should I be? The signs of our deluded sense of civilization are everywhere. We are constantly being told we’re not good enough, smart enough, good-looking enough, rich enough, whatever enough—we are essentially fed fear. Then we are taught to be tough, to control our emotions, to be polite, follow the rules, but at what cost? Sure, we have a false sense of predictability, but as we now see that only holds so much weight. If we’re taught never to question and understand ourselves, how can we know what to do when we feel deep feelings of loss, isolation and despair? It may seem trivial (and on some level it is) to get worked up over a hockey game, but to many it’s so much more than that—it’s a sense of community, of belonging, identity and power. When you mix the fear of losing those things with effects of alcohol, you get a recipe for primitive angst. Not to mention, a sprinkle of unexpressed and misunderstood male hormones.

I have stopped weeping now. The act of writing has helped to some extent, though the more I contemplate it, the more I realize how complex an issue it really is. It is easy to find reasons or explanations and it feels good to believe it could be that simple, but it’s not. To truly understand why violence and destruction exists, we need to close our textbooks, abandon our theories, and look inside. It exists in all of us, in different ways, in different forms, and to deny it is to stifle our only chance at evolving through it. Judging those with less emotional maturity, less emotional resources, and less intellectual vision is not the answer. Uncovering those parts of ourselves and learning to love is.

As for my friend in Vancouver, her car got trashed and torched. Her computer, wallet and the clothes inside were burned to a crisp. She and others have been collecting photos of the culprits doing the act, including one of a girl flashing the peace sign in front of the burning vehicle. I feel sad for my friend and her loss, but I know she’ll be okay. I know she will learn from it and work to build her emotional fortitude because of it. I’m not so sure what will happen to the people in the photos though. I can only hope they will also learn from this experience, that the weight of their acts will awaken their conscience. I also hope the weight of these acts will awaken consciousness in all of us. We are not as civilized as we think, and we need to grow up, otherwise we’ll end up destroying ourselves.

I like bunnies!!! Oh, and the Nicki Clyne Fan 'Zine is out!

Okay, I'm just gonna be completely honest. I'm not a salesperson. I've never been good at it. I know it's a skill you can build, but I just haven't yet. When I was in school and we sold chocolates to raise money for camp, my family was eating Mint Meltaways^® for months. It's probably related to some fear of rejection, or failure, or that time I got in trouble for selling pot-pourri which was essentially rose petals sprayed with my mom's expensive perfume. Conveniently, those feelings are soothed with the sweet, velvety taste of chocolate and mint melting like butter in your mouth... Anyway, that was the past, and now I have something way cooler than cheap-ass fundraising chocolates. It's a collaboration between three amazingly awesome and talented people (yes, I'm including myself in that statement - awkward, right?). I'm calling it the Nicki Clyne Fan 'Zine, but it's just as much about the fans as it is about me. It's a tribute to the fan community and a nostalgic reference to "fan zines" of the past. There will only be a limited number ever in existence. So even if it's not exciting to you now, maybe one day you can sell it and pay for your kid's camp tuition (or at least a box of their chocolates).

I'm very excited to share this project, it was a really neat creative process. Pedro's art is truly amazing, I think he really captured a certain Nicki-ness in is drawings. (Either that or I look A LOT like a cartoon in real life. You decide.) And even though I know I'm awesome regardless (my mom says so), I really hope you like it too :). Click here to get  your copy today! (shipping included.)

My I-Con Reunion

I often remember my mom saying to me, “It doesn’t matter so much where you go, it’s who you’re with that counts.” I think at certain times I mistook this advice for her trying to prevent me from going places I wanted to go (probably with people who weren’t necessarily the best influence), but as I get older and add more places to my travel log, I realize there’s a grain of truth in her words; maybe even a very large grain. It’s not the places I’ve seen that stick in my mind so much as the jokes I’ve shared, the questions I’ve asked, or been asked, and the stories I’ve heard about people and places I can only imagine. Case in point, I’ve been to a lot of conventions in my veteran years as a sci-fi tv star. I’ve visited different countries, stayed in fancy hotels, not-so-fancy hotels, eaten great food, eaten frozen dinners, you name it. And while all of those things are interesting and certainly entertaining at times, what impresses me most is always the people. The reason I returned to I-CON last weekend, having attended it only two years prior, was exactly this: the people. I had such an incredible time, both with the other actors and the staff, it was kind of a no brainer when they asked me to return. The word that came to mind when I thought about what was different at this convention than many of the others was “community.” The word that comes to mind after attending the con for the second time, is “family.” And not just because I refer to the media chair as “Ma” and spent the whole weekend with one of her eight children whom I care for like a little sister (even though she spent most of her time taking care of me). No, not only because of those things. It also feels like family because despite all the chaotic events and activities and the massive amount of man power and organizing that must have gone into the event, everyone there seemed to be enjoying themselves. Like a high-stress holiday dinner, people coming and going, gears grinding, sparks flying, people were still smiling and having a good time. They still cared about being there rather than just getting the job done. In a world, and often an industry, where product trumps people, it’s refreshing to remember what’s at the heart of all this madness. The sci-fi community never ceases to be a good example of keeping this principle real.

Anyway, I’m keeping this short and sweet, but thanks for the good times everyone at I-Con. Hope to come back again soon!

the hazards of riding a yoshi

Every time I think of I-CON 28 (a convention I attended exactly two years ago, and am revisiting this weekend), I literally laugh out loud. This is because one particular event sticks in my mind and, kinda like farting in public, the joke just never gets old. Doesn't matter if I'm by myself or reminded by someone who witnessed it, I just can't get over the absurdity and hilarity that ensued the night of the costume contest. Let me set the stage... There was a kid who had been walking around the convention carrying a sign saying "Free Yoshi Rides." Appropriately, he was dressed like the friendly dinosaur from Mario Bros. Being the adventurer I am, I decided to take him up on his offer. As soon as I got on his back, I realized we had not discussed the rules of engagement and I had no idea where he was taking me nor for how long. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, but figured, what's the worst that can happen? After a few awkward minutes of skipping around a school gymnasium, he dropped me back off at my table and we all had a good laugh. He proceeded to make a mark on the back of his sign, apparently tallying his Yoshi ride totals. (Should I have felt used? Nevermind.)

So that night, as he would, Yoshi entered the costume contest. Each contestant did a little presentation or routine in the middle of the circle and some of the other guests and I were there to judge the best costumes. Simple right? Well, it was all fun and games until Yoshi backed right into me, not-so-subtly gesturing for me to enjoy and encore presentation of my Yoshi ride. What's a girl to do? I couldn't say no in front of everyone. So I hopped on and this is what happened... (Make sure you scroll to the end for the best part.)

Okay, wanna know what the best part was? After he dusted himself off and asked me if I was okay, he looked me square in the eyes, shrugged his shoulders and innocently proclaimed, "Game Over!"

Classic.

(Special thanks to Tory Belleci from Myth Busters for the ongoing moral support and spontaneous laugh attacks.)

Nicki Clyne Fan 'Zine FTW!

Hey everyone! I'm really excited to roll out this lil' collaboration I've been working on. With the help of some talented friends, the first ever "Nicki Clyne Fan 'Zine" has been created! It's all for fun, kind of a throwback to comics from the 50's with cut-outs and games. You can even help Cally find the cylon through a maze! The art work is pretty spectacular, somehow Pedro Vargas captured a certain "Nicki-ness" and managed to translate it into a cartoon.

I'll be releasing a limited edition run of 1000, so get 'em while they're hot! I'm giving first dibs to everyone who comes to I-CON 30 this weekend, then it's fair game to the internet populace thereafter. Every 'zine will be numbered and hand signed - even personalized if you so desire!

Looking forward to hearing what your thoughts! Please send feedback, as this is only the beginning of my creative endeavors.

Here are a few sample pages to whet your appetite, there are 16 total. Full details coming soon... Enjoy!

bad news bears

Word of advice: decide within your family (ahead of time) what constitutes "bad news." My mom called me today while I was working at a friend's house. I answered the second time. It's unusual for her to call during the day since she's a teacher and typically gives me shit for making her look bad when her phone rings in class. I asked if it was lunch time and she sort of mumbled. There was something a bit off in her tone - either she was waiting to tell me something I didn't want to hear or she was having a momentary lapse in sanity and thought I was five years old again. I asked if everything was okay and she said no.

I don't remember if it was her who suggested it or me, but I said I'd call her when I got home; I only had a few things to finish up and didn't live too far. I told myself I was fine. And I was, except for the feelings that rose like smoke signal from my gut. I couldn't help it. I imagined what I was going to do when she told me something had happened to my dad. Who would I call? Where would I go? Would I get on a plane? Could I finish my work? I imagined how hard I would cry and my vision immediately blurred. But wait, they don't even speak, how would she know if something happened to him? The last time he was in the hospital, they called me directly. So was it my brother? He recently dislocated his shoulder, maybe he'd injured himself again. Oh god. I think of all the tough things I can handle in life, something happening to my brother just isn't among them. So my fears got the best of my brain and stopped those synapses in their tracks. Maybe it was my cousin. But why wouldn't she just tell me? I tried to snap out of it. I told myself to enjoy these last few moments of ignorance. The sky was beautiful, the trees were reflecting light off their melting branches. But just as soon as I would take a deep breath, another smoke signal would set off and collect like a fog in my mind. I tried to find a cheery song on the radio. It only made me want to push John Mayer down some stairs.

I started dialing before I even got up my steps, timing it so I had just enough time to open the door and take off my boots before I'd hear the news... It was Leeloo, my cat. I started to laugh and cry at the same time. I couldn't tell if I was actually feeling anything for poor Leeloo because I was so relieved I wouldn't be attending any funerals in the near future. Leeloo has pretty much been my mom's cat for the last seven years, so it's no surprise she'd project great upset at her loss. The darn thing barely said hello to me when I'd visit, yet she slept on my mom's head every night. I'll miss her though, most especially next time I go home to visit and won't see her hopping sideways down the stairs to greet me.

Still, as I mourn the loss of my little friend, and feel for my mom as she adapts to a quieter household, I learned something very valuable today: We are f-ing crazy, and it's always better to know the truth than to entertain our fear-fueled fantasies. To be honest, I remember thinking of it as a small challenge when she said she had bad news. I pretty much always want to know things right away - I want to open presents before Christmas, I want to know what people are saying when they're whispering, I just like to know. So I thought I was doing the responsible thing. And maybe I was. It's just so fascinating how our  fears can so quickly take over when we think something's wrong. How from one moment to the next, the slightest hint of vulnerability can turn the world into a scary place. I don't know, maybe I'm too dramatic, maybe it's an actor thing, or maybe I'm actually really lucky to have had the opportunity to feel those things without them happening in real life. Maybe if we used our minds to build compassion that way, it wouldn't be so scary when it actually happened. Maybe, just maybe, we'd even make better decisions in the present.

I don't know, it's just a thought, but I think I'll go call my dad and my brother now.

rest in peace

Throughout my life, I've had a lot of experience with good old-fashioned road trips. My mom grew up in a quaint little ski town about ten hours outside of Vancouver. Every holiday we’d pack our sedan with blankets, pillows, snacks and game boys, and cruise from morning ‘til night. These days, the distances I travel are much shorter, but they usually involve at least a few hours of driving on the highway. During these excursions, I’ve become increasingly familiar with the rest stops along the way—the particular restaurants or gift shops they host, the cleanliness or convenience of the bathrooms, even some of the people who work at them. I used to consider these mandatory interruptions a major inconvenience, but I’ve since come to appreciate the humanity inherent in these iconic landmarks of the modern age. First of all, they don’t discriminate. Whether you’re traveling by limousine, pick-up truck, or semi trailer, chances are you’re going to have to use the facilities at some point in your travels. (If not, I’m afraid to ask the alternative.) Our most basic needs are exposed in a way we usually try to deny or just plain ignore. In order to survive, we all need food, water, and a way to dispose of these substances once they’ve been processed. It uncovers certain unifying qualities of the human experience, qualities we tend to want to overlook, especially in a culture driven by convenience and consumption. But after you’ve been driving in a car for hours, a cemetery of coffee cups and water bottles littering the floor, a rest stop is a saving grace like no other. I might even be so bold as to call this a universal human experience: Next rest stop—two miles. YES!

A rest stop is a place where every single patron shares a common bond—every single person has a destination and where they are in that moment is not it. There’s a transient quality that is neither masked nor mourned. Everyone is en route, stopping only momentarily to rest, refuel or relieve oneself. There is no pretense, no posturing, the mission is simple and we’re all in it together. At least that’s how I feel when I give a knowing nod to the woman in the bathroom mirror before continuing on my merry way. It’s like being part of a community with no solid identity, only the communal value of getting somewhere else, comfortably.

I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we have drive-through rest stops, some way we could complete our bodily chores without even exiting our vehicles. Yes, the image it evokes is slightly grotesque, but surely stranger things have been invented, and accepted. But if it were that way, I think I would miss the connection that happens when you share a sink with a fellow traveler, resigned to the reality of your travel rituals and relishing in the opportunity to stretch your legs and get a fresh cup of coffee. It can be a welcome relief from the isolating act of driving, a reminder that a world exists beyond your driver’s seat view.

I suppose the objectification of the rest stop experience is an easy metaphor. We’re continuously finding ways to make things more streamlined, more efficient and less effort. But is this necessarily good? I drove back from Comic-Con a couple years ago with Edward James Olmos and Michael Hogan. Naturally, we had to stop at a gas station to fuel up and, you know, do the opposite of that. There was one dingy bathroom around the back of the store. I waited in the small line, a couple people in front of me and a few behind—children twisted around the railing as their parents straightened in a bored summer haze—but when Eddie came out of the bathroom, I could feel their eyes get bigger. One person recognized him, nudging the other, and so on...

By the time we pulled out of the gas station, I could see a few heads peering around the wall, pointing in curiosity and awe. Now, this would probably appear benign to most people, probably even to Eddie himself, but I can’t help but feel it’s important. It’s important to embrace our human qualities, share our common struggles and not try to avoid these experiences that make us uniquely human—and part of the greatest emergent property of all: humanity. So whenever you’re at a rest stop, whether literally or metaphorically, try to embrace that experience, maybe even enjoy it; after all, the world would be a pretty shitty place without it. ;)

(i'm glad) some things never change

I've always loved looking at photos of my friends when they were wee little munchkins. Last year for my birthday, I asked my friends to bring along their favorite kid pictures to my party and it was even more fun than I imagined. My favorite part (besides the typically awesome fashion) is noticing the subtle qualities and attributes that are so uniquely “them;" that even twenty or thirty, or forty, years later, they still curl their lip on one side or squint that one eye, or have that expression as if they're waiting for mom to say it's okay to dig in to dessert. You know, those indescribable nuances that allow you to recognize them in a crowd or at a great distance—the way they walk, the way they slouch, they way they flick their hair (even if they no longer have any). There’s a certain innocence to existence I think we often forget, or mistakenly think we lose. We all start out as these little lumps of flesh and love, and then we grow up, and somehow we believe we’re supposed to know stuff, have stuff, do stuff... But deep down, we’re that same little child who stared in awe out the car window, endlessly fascinated with every movement, every smell, every sound. This, I believe, is our nature—this curiosity and joyfulness. I love that photos from our past can be a reminder of that. I was inspired to write about this because I discovered an amazing photo project by Irina Werning. She's been recreating people’s childhood photos at their current age. This is what she says about it:

"I love old photos. I admit being a nosey photographer. As soon as I step into someone else’s house, I start sniffing for them. Most of us are fascinated by their retro look but to me, it’s imagining how people would feel and look like if they were to reenact them today... A few months ago, I decided to actually do this. So, with my camera, I started inviting people to go back to their future."

Quite literally, she takes my fascination to a whole new level. Check them out, I’m sure you’ll love them. Here are a few of my favorites...