Partons, la mer est belle.

My home, for the next little while...

St. John's, NL.

My heart.

Petty Harbour.

Iceberg watching.

Iceberg finding.

Cod cake, moose pie, seal sausage, cod tongue (and some greens, for good measure).

Nano Workout

My first piece for the Toronto Star, about the easiest of exercises...

Tweet Nice.

Yesterday, I got a text message along the lines of: “Have you seen what’s happening to this Russell character?” Jason Russell, the 33-year-old creator of the controversial philanthropic project Kony 2012, had been arrested (and later hospitalized) after running around the streets of San Diego completely naked. Oh, and he may have been masturbating. Thank you, TMZ.

In a way, Jason Russell had become the Internet’s new Lana Del Rey, and it was simply too much for him to bear. He’d lost it, and many of us were to blame.

A Twitter account can provide incredible power – if used correctly, it becomes one hell of a soapbox. From the dank shadows of their mother’s basement, armchair philosophers can take to the web to air out grievances about people they don’t know, people with success or attention perceived as undeserved. We all have this power to tweet, re-tweet, and contribute to the creation of trending topics. And we often seem to think that because we are "yelling" (sometimes anonymously) into the deep and murky well that is the Internet, no one will really hear us.

But we’re discovering that these voices snowball. In mere hours, our collective opinions can create a dizzying conversation that is picked up by the mainstream media in time for the evening newscast. The Kony 2012 project gained incredible steam, spawning --in a matter of days-- the most viral video of all time. Criticism of the project also came fast and furious, along with the swift assassination of Russell's character.

Through social media, we have the ability to build up or break down the next big thing or the next big disaster, and we are doing this faster than ever. Now, we are beginning to realize the devastating impact of our actions.

Unlike Jason Russell, Lana Del Rey did not lose it in public. The young, enigmatic and ostensibly talented young songstress kept it together, and that is admirable considering the vitriol we dished out at her. And for what? For getting plastic surgery? For not being that sharp in interviews? For singing off-key during live performances? How exactly does this make her different from most of the world’s pop stars?!

In Del Rey and Russell we found young, attractive and ambitious go-getters that made our blood boil. We had myriad reasons to justify our contempt: Del Rey is a horrible role model, a music label’s fabrication. Russell is alleged fraudster running a supposedly dishonest charity and his beyond-viral video was probably going to ruin all of Africa.

I do not exonerate myself from this behaviour. I am not a fan of Del Rey and I have my doubts about Kony 2012, and I have shared this publicly. Why did I feel the need to do that, to get other people to agree with me? We can’t go on like this.

Arguably, both Del Rey and Russell were merely trying to be recognized, to succeed at something. Their principal goal was not that of disturbing our peaceful little existences. It used to be that if you didn’t like something, you didn’t have to watch or listen, you could choose not to donate. Yet because the measure of success in this fast food, quick buzz media world is now based on the amount of views a YouTube video earns, we all become part of the target audience.

So we click and watch, we discuss and judge; whether popularity means success or massive failure now depends on the mood of a fickle and increasingly hard-to-please audience. And in our frenzy to connect over these common antagonisms, we seem to forget that we are discussing real people, fragile and breakable human beings.  

Russell’s friends have spoken out in his defense, vowing that he is a kind, generous person with good intentions. David Letterman and the SNL folk were quick to stand up for Del Rey, trying to tell us to get the clue, to tone it down.

Our behaviour is destructive. By being so vicious to the Del Reys and Russells of this world, we are sending out a dangerous message: you can try to be someone, do something, but make sure you are real as fuck about it. Make sure you’re legitimately, outrageously talented and that your intentions are completely pure otherwise we, the collective bully of the Internet, will tear you to bits. So trying becomes a frightening prospect, God forbid your efforts go viral and offend the wrong people.

 Tweeting away people’s aspirations should never be a trending topic.

Doing it all.

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of interviewing the indefatigable Jeanne Beker and her spirited daughters in their Toronto home. Here (or here) are some highlights from the conversation, published in Metro's International Women's Day issue.

North.

Excerpts from a week-long journey to Sioux Lookout and Thunder Bay, in Northwestern Ontario.

*Shot with Canon AE-1 and Canon 50mm lens using Black's generic ISO 400 film.

Lost.

The beauty of being in a place where you are unable to rely on your smartphone is that you actually have to go and talk to people. Then they make you maps like this one, drawn on the type of tiny paper bag once associated with buying fistfuls of one cent candy.

xoxo.

Beyond the prescribed hearts, chocolate and flowers, may Valentine's Day serve as a reminder to tell your nearest and dearest that you love them.

Not just today, but as often as you can.

Black Water.

I love.

Saving the Planet.

I am wary of both motivational speeches and vegetarianism, but eco-foodie Frances Moore Lappé's talk wasn't at all what I expected... Read my first piece for Toronto Standard, here.

Cuba Libre.

Pictures from our holiday in the sun.

*Shot with Canon AE-1 and Canon 50mm lens using some random ISO 400 film.

Best of 2011.

My favourite songs of the year, all available here. Happy listening!

1. Mr. Little Jeans - The Suburbs
2. Youth Lagoon - Cannons
3. Panda Bear - Alsatian Darn
4. TV on the Radio - Will Do (Switch Remix)
5. Bombay Bicycle Club - Video Games (Lana Del Rey cover)
6. Austra - Crying (Roy Orbison cover)
7. St. Vincent - Northern Lights
8. M83 - Midnight City
9. Neon Indian - Polish Girl
10. Handsome Furs -  Repatriated
11. The Dø - Too Insistent
12. Chad VanGaalen - Sara
13. PJ Harvey - Bitter Branches
14. Snowblink - Bulb, for Later
15. Young the Giant - Apartment
16. Kurt Vile - Society is My Friend
17. The Kills - The Last Goodbye
18. Bon Iver - Michicant
19. Explosions in the Sky - Let Me Back In

Booby Trap.

Paintings by the gorgeous Natalie Fournier

My latest article for Thought Out Loud features breasts and the frenzy they sometimes cause. Read it.

Bike Writing.

On tragedy, safety, and making our roads a better place.

Illustration by the wonderful Damian Lebiedzinski

Be Comfortable Creature.

Is it absurd that this pulls at my heartstrings?

 

 (Also, you should get this album, it's brilliant.)

Nine.

"Why do I hate Halloween so much?" I ask my mother, quasi-rhetorically. I am lamenting last weekend's parties and the effort that goes into planning a costume. I just don't like the concept of the holiday, I tell her. In recent years, the only costume I've worn consisted of a black plastic bag meant to symbolize the Toronto garbage strike.

She sighs. "You don't remember, do you?"

Remember what?

Nearly a decade ago, she recounts, it was on Halloween's eve that we found out he only had a few days left, that his fight was over.

I am thrown back to October 30, 2002. Following the news, our living room had been transformed into a palliative suite, outfitted with the rented hospital bed in which he'd spend his last days. That Halloween, with nary a pumpkin in sight, we turned off all our lights nervously hoping revelers would not come knocking for candy; the 'living dead' nature of the celebration simply hit too close to home.

My father died on November 7, 2002, at the age of 52. His illness had come, fast and furious, in the form of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma: a golf ball-sized tumour had taken up residence in his brain. Cancer, as it too often does, had ripped a doting husband and adoring father away from his loved ones.

I remember most of this vividly, though selectively, and still think about him nearly every day. Each fall, the anniversary of his death reminds me that passing time means greater distance from my memories of him.

Though it has been nine years, November’s miserable weather and inescapable pre-winter fatigue never fail to bring back the heart-wrenching grief we felt as he faded away. Every year adds to the ache as I accumulate new things to tell him, new questions to ask, new advice to seek. He was so, so cool.

Somehow, I had managed to disassociate his death from my loathing of Halloween. Probably because I wished the two events weren't so intertwined – Papa would be upset to know his passing tarnished the costumed festivities he so loved.

Writing about him is cathartic, and I don’t wish to make anyone uncomfortable. As devastating as it is to lose a parent at a young age, it has welded my family into a tight, unbreakable unit. His death, though tragic, has defined who I am and given me purpose and ambition. I am happy; I only wish he were here to see.

As is the power of defense mechanisms, I will probably keep forgetting why Halloween is ‘not my thing.’ Here’s to hoping that next year, I can get out of this funk and put together a decent costume. He’d be so proud.