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Bloggers’ Breakfast and Barbie’s Birthday

On Saturday morning I joined twenty-five other local bloggers for breakfast at an undisclosed location. I enjoyed catching up with those I hadn’t seen for awhile, and adding a face and a little more dimension to those I’ve only known online. I got lots of extra bacon too, thanks to the vegetarian bloggers.

The Original 1959 Barbie

The Original 1959 Barbie

Afterwards, GC and I went to Barbie’s birthday party at Billings Bridge Mall. Barbie’s had a long and illustrious life and is still as desirable on her 50th birthday as she was on her 20th.

I was never much into Barbie, but my big sister Debbie liked her. What I liked best was the carrying case that doubled as her closet. It had doors and hangers and stuff.

By the time my little sister, MudMama, came along, there were many more variations of Barbie. Mudmama had a Growing-Up Skipper doll: If you rotated her arm, she’d go through puberty right before your eyes. Rotate it the other way, and she’d regress back into childhood. (It was too much for my brother: he rotated that arm until the entire mechanism broke, and I can’t remember now whether Skipper got stuck for all eternity in childhood or in adolescence.)

The Barbie Photo Booth

The Barbie Photo Booth

Barbie’s 50th birthday party was, as you’d expect, a very pink affair. There were Barbie displays and Barbie colouring books and you could line up to get your picture taken with the five real-life Barbie models.

Not impressed with Barbie

Not impressed with Barbie


GC and I were the oldest people there and GC was the only boy. I took a picture of him and Barbie, and even though he’s an awfully good sport, I don’t think he’d want me to post it.

I also took pictures of various little princess girls posing with the Barbie models. Most of them were glowing with the awesomeness of the experience, but my favourite was this little girl who was completely unimpressed with Barbie and who scowled when told to smile. She was hilarious. If I ever have a grand-daughter, I want one just like her.

Barbie Sucks

I will NOT smile so fuck off

One of the Barbies did try to give us a small child, thinking she was ours because she said she was, but we declined. (Eventually someone stepped forward and claimed her, much to Barbie’s relief.)

We saw a family with several children gathered around a table colouring pictures of Barbie. One of the children was kneeling on her chair so she could reach her colouring book. She had the body of a one-year-old but with an older face, and she was colouring neatly inside the lines like a seven-year-old. Her mannerisms were not child-like, and she was looking around the room with wise old eyes. I have never seen anyone whose age was so utterly unguessable. She could have been a year old, or she could have been five or fifteen or even twenty-five. She fascinated me.

I think I’d rather be a 50-year-old trapped in a 20-year-old’s body, like Barbie, than be an adult trapped in a toddler’s body. But then again, who wouldn’t?

50-year-old Bikini Barbies

50-year-old Bikini Barbies

Newspaper memories

Young love

Young love

I’ve been thinking about the origins of my relationship with newspapers the other day, after Jo Stockton started a discussion about the Citizen.

I believe my relationship with newspapers began at the age of eight, when we were living on Oakridge Boulevard and the Ottawa Citizen was delivered to our door every afternoon.

I was unnaturally excited by the newspaper. I would wait for it the way other children waited for the ice cream cart. As soon as it arrived, I would grab it, bring it inside, flop down on the floor, and flip to my favourite sections.

I wasn’t precocious: my favourite sections were the comics, Dear Abby, the birth announcements and the adoption column, Today’s Child. (Every day they’d run a picture of some poor kid who needed adopting, along with a story of his or her woeful life so far, and a description of whatever shortcomings he or she might have. In retrospect, it was such an awful invasion of the kids’ privacy, to advertise them in the paper like that, but at the time I loved reading about these kids.)

And I did love the newspaper.

My very favourite thing that the Ottawa Citizen ever did was a series of gold treasure hunts circa 1980. I think the price of gold was skyrocketing at the time, and the Citizen hid a bar of gold somewhere in the city. Every day until it was found, they published a clue as to its whereabouts.

It was wintertime, and you know how Ottawa is in the wintertime. But this contest energized Ottawa and brought us out of hibernation. Thousands of people were puzzling over the clues, getting up off their couches and venturing out into the city to go find that bar of gold. It was the hot topic of discussion in workplaces, pubs, and on the streets. Even the people who weren’t looking for the gold were following the clues and sharing ideas.

As for me, the Citizen’s gold contest became the central focus of my life. Every morning I’d get up early and go buy the paper, read the new clue, brainstorm with John about it, and then we’d head out in search of the gold. Sometimes we were absolutely certain we knew exactly where it was, and we’d race over there only to find other equally certain treasure-hunters, but no gold.

Someone eventually found the gold in a pipe in the wall of the Rideau Canal. The contest had been so popular that the Citizen ran a second one, and possibly a third.

Sigh. Am I the only one with fond memories of their relationship with the newspaper? Or who even thinks of it as a relationship?

In a small crowded room with Gabor Maté

Gabor Maté at CCHC, March 4, 2009

Gabor Maté at CCHC, March 4, 2009

Dr. Gabor Maté spoke in a small, packed room at the Centretown Community Health Centre a couple of days ago. He’s a physician whose clients are primarily hardcore drug addicts in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

[Also appearing at the same event was Dr. Samantha King, who wrote a book about the Pink Ribbon campaign and the commodification of breast cancer. She was interesting too, and I’ll try to write a separate blog post about her talk this weekend.]

Dr. Maté spent the first few minutes of his allotted time talking about breast cancer, which he believes is caused primarily by stress. He then segued gracefully from cancer into addiction by pointing out that a war on cancer makes no more sense than a war on drugs.

“You can’t have a war on drugs,” he said, “Because drugs are inanimate objects. This is a war on drug addicts.”

As such, it’s a war on the most abused and vulnerable segment of society.

According to Dr. Maté, virtually all addicts were subjected to abuse, neglect or mistreatment as children. He says he’s never had a female patient in the Downtown Eastside, for example, who had not been sexually abused as a child. Not one.

It doesn’t have to be sexual abuse, or brutal abuse or appalling levels of neglect either, to make a child vulnerable to subsequent addiction. Depressed or emotionally unavailable parents can have the same effect on their infants. (He goes into fascinating detail about this in his book, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.)

Essentially, failing to meet the needs of an infant or child physically alters their brain and creates physiological pathways for addiction. The brain adapts to abuse or neglect by changing.

He told us about a Toronto cop whose job it was to track down Internet pedophiles. That cop remains haunted by the videos of children crying in pain and fear – but even more so by the children who expressed nothing, who had given up, who had ‘dead eyes.’

The irony is that we feel such compassion for those dead-eyed children, but only contempt for the damaged adults they subsequently become.

“And speaking of dead eyes,” he said, “Have you ever looked at Stephen Harper’s face?”

This drew an appreciative chuckle from the crowd, but Maté wasn’t kidding. He went on to say that BC Premier Gordon Campbell used to have those same dead eyes, and he knows that Campbell’s alcoholic father committed suicide when his son was 12. He doesn’t know Harper’s history, but he suspects there’s something there too. People who were forced to experience their own vulnerability in such a traumatic way in early life will sometimes attack vulnerability in others. For politicians, this can mean stripping social programs bare, declaring war on drug addicts, and scapegoating the poorest and most vulnerable members of society.

Stephen Harper’s government has no compassion for addicts. They’re trying to shut down Insite and other harm reduction programs. They’re focusing Canada’s resources on more cops, more prisons and longer sentences. They favour punishment over treatment and ideology over evidence. It’s a phenomenally expensive approach, and it is doomed to fail here just as it is has failed in the United States. It will fail because addiction is a health problem, not a criminal justice problem. And it will fail because addiction does not surrender to punishment. Over the long run, addiction itself is hugely punitive to the addict, but it’s still self-perpetuating.

If you want to reach addicts, said Dr. Maté, you have to make things better for them, not worse. If people are to give up their addictions, it’s because they’ve had a taste of victory and like it better than defeat. They need an “island of relief.”

If you missed him this time around, Dr. Maté will be giving a workshop on April 13th for the John Howard Society in Ottawa.

More housekeeping, and frozen naked teenagers

Just a quick head’s up. Knitnut.net will be moving to its new server tomorrow (Wednesday). This will mean you probably won’t be able to connect for a day or two, as the DNS change propagates around the internet.

Propagation is just a fancy word for server word-of-mouth, as all the servers in the universe find out and spread the news that this website is physically located on a different machine now. It’s a gradual process – some of you might be able to reconnect in 12 hours, others might take 48. I hope I’m closer to the 12-hour mark.

Meanwhile, on a completely unrelated note, I don’t think the five little kids have moved in next door yet, because things are awfully quiet over there. Maybe they’re are all temporarily farmed out to grandparents while the parents get unpacked and organized.

Speaking of kids, I took the bus to work today, and I waited at the bus stop with five teenagers. It was bloody cold out there this morning – about 25 below with the wind chill factor. All the kids were wearing tiny little jackets. None of them were wearing mittens or gloves or hats or scarves. Three of them wore running shoes and two of them wore stylish boots.

And they were complaining about how cold it was!

Do you think it’s a fashion thing, or do they just not get the whole concept of dressing warmly? I seem to recall not dressing warmly until after I had a child. Before that I didn’t put much stock in all the conventional wisdom about dressing for the weather. I didn’t believe a hat or a scarf could make much of a difference. (I wore mittens though. I always believed in mittens.)

Another myth pierced

I don’t know about you, but I thought addicts were notoriously irresponsible about disposing of used needles. From everything I’ve heard in the media and at community meetings, our parks, playgrounds, schoolyards and front lawns are practically carpeted in used needles.

There’s no question some needles are ending up in those places. But apparently it’s not because drug users, on the whole, are irresponsible about how they dispose of their needles. According to a new report by the local public health department, Ottawa’s addicts properly disposed of half a million needles last year.

Check out my flash file :

preview image

By the way, Dr. Gabor Maté will be speaking at the Centretown Community Health Centre on Wednesday evening at 7:00 as part of Octopus Books’ anniversary celebration. Dr. Maté is an expert on addiction and treats addicts in Vancouver’s Downtown East Side.

My bloggable new neighbours

Remember my next-door-neighbour, Brian? The one who got rid of my wasp nests and mowed my lawn and was just generally competent and helpful and quiet?

He moved.

The landlords then spent the month of February fixing the place up. They painted walls and replaced appliances and carpeting, and things like that. The For Rent sign went up for only a day.

Last night, in the middle of the night, the new tenants moved in. At 3:30 in the morning, GC was up and grumbling about the noise. (It’s a town house – most of the rooms in my house share a wall with most of the rooms in their house.)

At 4:00 in the morning, since he couldn’t sleep anyways, GC went over and introduced himself and asked them to move their moving van so he could get his car out. He then went back to his place to get a few hours of work in before we met some friends for breakfast.

Later he told me about them.

“Their names are Jason and Melissa,” he said.

“Those sound like young names.” I said, “How old are they?”

“Fifteen,” he replied.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, eighteen,” he said.

“Why would kids that age be renting a house,” I mused, “instead of an apartment?”

After breakfast we came back here and ran into Jason out back, still unloading the moving van. His cousin was helping him.

“Are you both moving in?” I asked.

“No,” said Jason. “Just me and Melissa.”

“Oh,” I said.

“And our five kids,” he added.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” we chuckled.

“I’m serious,” said Jason, looking serious.

“Five kids?” I asked cautiously. “How old are they?”

“Six, five, three, almost two, and three months,” he said.

Did I mention I share a wall with these people?

My first thought, naturally, was that they were going to drive me crazy with their incessant crying and fighting and blaring TVs and video games and running up and down the stairs and body-slamming the wall.

But seconds later I had my second thought. And it was this: If it’s really, really awful, it’ll probably provide me with some good blogging material.

See what blogging does to you? You develop this weird twisted enthusiasm for whatever life throws your way. If it’s good, you’re happy because something good is happening, and if it’s bad, you’re happy that something bloggable is happening.

Couple of housekeeping notes

Don’t worry, I’m not about to start giving you household tips or anything like that. You’ve already seen my living room, so it’s too late for that.

Lately things have been a little shaky from a technological perspective here at knitnut.net.

Some of you have brought it to my attention that there’s a weird error message cropping up when you try to come to my blog. It says you’ve been banned for spamming.

It tells me I’ve been banned too.

I’ve alerted my web host, and hopefully they can fix it. In the meantime, you should be able to get to my blog just fine if you go to knitnut.net instead of www.knitnut.net.

Secondly, I’ve been having some other intermittent problems with my web server over the past few months. Consequently, I’ve requested that my web host transfer my blog to one of their other servers. They’ve agreed. The transfer will take place sometime between Monday and Wednesday. There will likely be some down time, but I can’t be more specific that that.

Anyway, I hope you’ll bear with me. With a little luck this move will take place with a minimum of disruption and the intermittent problems will be resolved.

Have we stopped doing stuff?

I had breakfast at Irene’s with GC, Robin, XUP and Hella Stella this morning. It was a do-over breakfast since our previous attempt to get together was thwarted by XUP’s child’s delicate bones.

During the course of breakfast, XUP inquired as to whether GC and I have stopped doing things, since I apparently have not been blogging about us doing things lately.

GC and I looked at each other. Have we stopped doing things? Have we gradually lapsed into a complacent routine of watching re-runs on television?

Well, not exactly. I sold my TV a few weeks ago, since it was just sitting there taking up valuable living room real estate. (The going price, by the way, for a four-year-old 27″ RCA television is $40.)

But if TV isn’t eating up our time and keeping us from doing stuff, what is? There’s art class on Monday nights and the soup kitchen on Wednesday nights. But the rest of the time, well, time just seems to take care of itself. For example, today we went out for breakfast and I didn’t get home until 4:00. A whole day, shot, just eating breakfast. And sometimes I just sit down at the computer to catch up on my Facebook games and the next thing I know it’s bedtime.

The Big Picture. And Duncan.

The Big Picture. And Duncan.

When I got home from breakfast this evening, I realized that my living room reflects, fairly accurately, how GC and I have been spending our non-work, non-computer time. [If you click on the pictures, they’ll get bigger.]

My coffee table

The piles on the coffee table

The pile on the floor

The pile on the floor

The beginning of the Word Project

The beginning of the Word Project

The Smarties Colour-Tracking Project

The Smarties Colour-Tracking Project

One Week

Last night GC and I went to see One Week at the Coliseum, compliments of Mongrel Media who sent me a whole whack of passes just for being a blogger.

It’s an outrageously and unapologetically Canadian film, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. It stars Joshua Jackson (remember him? He was Pacey on Dawson’s Creek) and it’s got every imaginable Canadian symbol in it, from Terry Fox to the Sudbury Nickel to crop insurance and Canadian geese. It’s even funny. It reminded me of my youthful hitchhiking treks across Canada, and it made me want to go on a road trip. You know. Before I die.

Go see it! I have a bunch of free double passes for the Thursday March 5th show at the Coliseum on Carling. See my last post for instructions on how to get me to send you one.

This, that, and free tickets too

Thanks for all the word donations. There were some truly inspired and fabulous words in there, including two bananas. If you haven’t given me one yet, please do. I’ll be sure to blog about the project once it gets underway, so you’ll know your words went to a good cause. At this point, all I can say is that this is an art project.

Thanks also for your feedback on the new theme. I’m going to mull it all over and I’m pretty sure changes will result. (I’m curious to see what they’ll be…)

I’m looking forward to Daylight Savings Time next weekend, aren’t you? Although it seems ridiculously early compared to past years, it also seems like it’s not a minute too soon.

I think Spring’s coming early this year. Sure, winter’s got a few more cryogenic blasts left in her, but February feels unusually loose and hopeful. It’s still February, of course, you can’t get around that: it sucks like only February can suck. But time hasn’t frozen solid the way it usually does in February in Ottawa. Considering we’ve endured a bus strike and everything, winter’s been tolerable.

Speaking of the bus strike, there were some interesting headlines about the mayor in the local newspapers this morning. Minister of Transport John Baird has been subpoenaed as a witness in Mayor Larry’s bribery trial, which starts April 27th. Hallelujah. And Council thinks they might actually get some work done with Larry out of the picture. That would be nice, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Larry’s not the only dysfunctional family member at the Council table.

Speaking of dysfunctional, don’t you just love a news story that makes all your flaws and misdeeds pale in comparison? A woman sold a four-year-old and a five-year-old for a cockatoo and $175. Oh sure, we’ve all thought about it, but it takes a special kind of dysfunctional to actually go through with it.

In other news, GC and I are going to see the movie One Week tonight. It’s an advance showing before the film officially opens on March 6th. Mongrel Media has been busy distributing free advance passes to bloggers across Canada, presumably to generate some buzz.

I’ve got a bunch of double passes to see this movie on Thursday March 5th at 7:00 pm at the Coliseum on Carling Avenue. I’m giving them away to the first 10 people to leave a comment with a link to their favourite post on their own blog. (Or, if you don’t have a blog of your own, feel free to leave a comment with a link to your favourite post on my blog.) Just leave your comment and then send me an email me with your snail mail address.