"My Flaws" Or "How Violet Dear Could Have Lost the Job Before she Even Got It."

Kevin and Trixie better watch out.

I was in a job interview on Tuesday, and I got the dreaded question: "What are two of your flaws?"

I made up some inspiring, secretly manipulative 'negatives that are actually a positive to you, potential boss' and went with those, but can you imagine if I'd been honest?

I do not think I would have gotten the job. Have a look.

*I am possessive of my ideas and hate it when people copy me - I know it's supposed to be flattering but it makes me batshit crazy.

*My bra and panties NEVER match. For instance – today? Red underwear patterned with nigiri sushi and an olive green bra with lace. It's like sad, unsexy Christmas, ladies and gentlemen.

*I build up my expectations that things will be exactly the way I envision them to be, and when they are not I am fixated on trying to swing them back to where I want them to be. I have been told that this is annoying.

*I don't work well with others.

*My voice carries. I'm like 'Til Tuesdays biggest nightmare up in here. I mortify X in restaurants all the time.

*As a little girl, I used to dress up my cats and dogs in doll clothes and strap them into a baby carriage. I still catch myself looking at Kevin and Trixie (my cats) and wondering....

*I call bullshit on casual friends and strangers a little too aggressively. I dated a compulsive liar for a brief while and it made me suspect everybody of telling tall tales.

*I probably should not be left alone with your baby because I might get all Liz Lemon and accidentally steal it.

*While you are talking I am writing in my head. No offense, I am sure you are interesting. It's just that I am more interesting and I sure like spending time with the poet I keep chained to the bed in my brain.

*Don't know how to whistle. Oh really? You think you can teach me? Why, you are simply the FIRST person EVER who has tried! Can't whistle. It's not affecting my quality of life. Get over it.

*I am missing important vaccinations because I actually cry whenever I get a needle. Right now I am about to get like, 3 and my breath is already starting to get hitch-y and my eyes are darting around looking for an escape route. I used to go and smoke in Junior High whenever we were supposed to get jabbed, so who knows what measles and rubella I am carrying..

*I'm kind of sarcastic. Kind of.

*Sometimes I have a drink so that I then can have a cigarette – that way I can keep up up the ruse that “I only smoke when I drink.”

*I have probably told Heppy or Xstina everything you have ever told me in confidence.

*I once knocked a sanitary napkin box off of the wall in the ladies washroom at the Lotus - with my head. X saw me laying on the floor and assumed I was vomiting, but then I reeled out of the stall and slurred “I hit my head on that thing.”
Stillettoes + Vodka =

*I'm a hotheaded loudmouth. At fifteen and while playing baseball, another team shouted “you suck!” at my team. I responded, in front of all of my teammate's mums and dads - “Yeah, well at least we don't swallow!” I wasn't sure what that meant. Apparently, it was something very offensive.

*I don't wash dishes very well. They are usually still kind of greasy – and here is the thing: I don't care.

*I am a firm believer in “what I don't know can't hurt me.” Therefore, I walk around the house nekkid with the blinds open, I eat food that has fallen on the ground and I don't care if you talk about me behind my back (and of course you do – I am a terror) – as long as I don't find out about it.

*Ever think “oh, I have no black socks clean, so I'll just pop these white ones on with my black shoes and no one will notice? (or other similar awful thing)” Oh yes. I will notice. And judge you.

*I let my cats do whatever they want. Like, Kevin sits on the counter while I cook supper, and sometimes I have to battle him to prevent him from stealing the ingredients. Trixie walks on my face every morning. I complain about these things – and then do precisely nothing to stop them.

*I dip my poutine in curried mayo. That's pretty wrong for a lot of reasons.

* I am a master – the best ever – at coming up with excuses to get myself and my friends out of doing things they don't wanna do. Long, beautifully crafted and completely plausible lies, ladies and gentlemen.

*I am a skilled rhetorician. This sounds like a good thing, but it basically means that I am going to win any argument we get in.

*I judge you on your grammar and spelling.

*I don't know how to drive. It's not just that I don't have my license – I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO MAKE CAR WORK.

*I have what I refer to as “spatial retardation” - I have problems with maps and left and right (and wrong) and I still tie my shoes using the 'two bunny ears method' and even then sometimes I have to start again. I didn't learn until I was 7. You know those 3D puzzles? Hot tears.

*I once ran over my cousin Matthew with a tricycle when he was learning how to walk. I was 4.

*I spend too much time writing lists. Clearly.

xox
Violet Dear

Olympic Brouha....ha?

So, I'll admit it. Seven years ago I marched down to the local polling station and voted in the Vancouver plebiscite to decide whether we wanted to host the 2010 Winter Olympics. And I voted No.

Not that it ended up mattering, mind you - but I felt very strongly at the time that my city - my wonderful, weird city - was not ready to host such a huge event. Not with our endemic poverty, our sub-Saharan Africa rates of HIV and tuberculosis and the slashing of our social programs in order to pay for this thing. I still kind of do.

Basically, for Expo 86 Vancouver's the poor of Vancouver's Downtown Eastside were marginalized further and crammed into a smaller area than ever before, making this historical neighbourhood the Western world's most impoverished postal code.

Visitors always ask me why we have so many intravenous drug users and homeless folks to begin with and there are a lot of reasons, but I think that the main one is that we are the only city in Canada where it is kind of warm enough all year round to spend large chunks of time outside. You can't exactly sleep on the street in Winnipeg in February - a lot of people from across Canada who have drug addictions and mental disorders - and often both (the dual diagnosis) make their way here, a bustling port town on the Pacific Rim with a sordid opiate trade history and lenient policies (even safe injection sites.)

What myself and the other left leaning people of Vancouver were worried about in hosting the Olympics was that Expo 86 would repeat itself and we'd have an even larger problem in the city. And in a way that has happened - millions upon millions of dollars have been spent on infrastructure while the most vulnerable people in my city languish on the cold, wet streets - unable to get into a treatment bed even if they want to.

The homeless are not the only ones affected- even social programs like books for the blind have been cut (how evil and heartless does that seem to you?). Festivals and events are being cancelled due to lack of funding. My provincial government no longer gives grants to students. This isn't even mentioning the destruction of stolen Native land to build roads (and commodification of Native images used to sell mascots and products.) The list is endless and appalling.

It's clear who is going to benefit - the foreign companies such as Coca-Cola, McDonalds (you try eating that crap and being athletic - not gonna happen) and Samsung will all rake in millions while we locals spend 2 hours - yes, you heard me, 2 hours to get transit to get to work.

BUT - and here it is - it's happening. Whether I am saddened and scared for the state my city will be in when it is over, it is happening whether I think it's moral or not and I am actually really excited. People will be here from all over the globe! Estonians! Argentinians! Belorussians! South Africans! So many more!

It truly is a once in a lifetime event, and I will be telling my grandchildren (oh lord - someone who will be raised by someone who will be raised by me.... may god have mercy on their souls) about this in 50 years. I only wish that my Grandpa, a huge Olympics fan, was here to see his city host them.

And while transit will be terrible and traffic horrendous, despite my political angst I cannot wait to put some wine in a travel mug, bundle up and walk downtown on February twelfth to just soak up the energy and the craziness during the Opening Ceremonies. Violet Dear does love a party...

I am deeply ashamed of the poverty left unchecked in Vancouver and I think that we should focus on fixing our problems before inviting the world in to see them - but I am also proud of my outrageously beautiful city. Like, extremely proud. It's a pretty great place to be from(and as a born and raised local I am as rare as a unicorn.)

So gang, tune in in the coming weeks. I'll let you know how it's going. And it just might be a travel mug full o' wine doing the talking.....

Shelved - Part 1 of 2

Tchotchke heaven.

I am the knick-knack queen. I have 2 shelves like this in my new apartment, between the kitchen and the living room and when I saw them I rubbed my hands together with glee and thought "yes. YES!" I have resisted the urge to load them with the contents of my boxes and boxes of random pop culture memorabilia and have instead left them - mostly - to things I have collected during my travels. Each odd and end tells its own story and together they are basically a time capsule so I thought y'all might like to hear about them.

I am always sad I am not a cute Japanese girl.

1) Blythe Stewardess Doll – Toronto

Little known fact: S moved to Vancouver for me. He was here on a few month business trip, visiting from Toronto, when he and met through my roommate at the time, Amy – who happens to be his BFF. The months came to an end and S realized that he simply could not leave Vancouver – so he trundled back to Toronto to sort and collect his belongings and the selfish brat I am – I was like "bring me a present! No, something besides moving here and disrupting your life and career goals!"

Knowing my penchant for weird stuff that only young Asian girls like, S was familiar with my creepy obsession with Blythe – the strange and wonderful doll made for just one year by Kenner in the 70's. In the 90's they became a hot collector's item and crafty ladies started taking photos of their Blythes in costumes and posting them online, creating a huge trend in Japan. Millions clamoured for the dolls but with so few ever manufactured there were not enough to satisfy the demand, and so in stepped myriad Japanese companies to start producing new ones. Originals can fetch thousands of dollars, and even the reproductions are really dear, with literally hundreds to choose from.

I love them. Until a few years ago, my wallet was Blythe. I have a Blythe beach bag. A t shirt. Earrings, address book, figurines. And at long last, S completed my collection with this: my Stewardess Blythe. At the time I was a travel agent, and this little gem sat on my desk for folks to admire. Makes me want a desk job again. But actually not.

Oh, that Gandhi.

2)Little Round Box – Male, The Maldives

The Maldives' small population does not sit around handcrafting lovely souvenirs for their wealthy European tourists to take home. Nope, everything we could find in the shops of Male was made in China – that generic ethnic-y Asian-y stuff that I have literally seen in shops from Nepal to Bali and even in Mexico and Fiji. Faux woodcarvings that buffet-fattened assholes can bring home, gaze at and wax poetic about the resort they didn't leave and how the people are "so friendly" without having any clue whatsoever about the culture of the land they visted. ( Geez, bitter much, Dear?) This was the only thing that we could find that seemed in some way special and not from a huge belching factory in Shenyang.

3)"Brother From Another" – Gift from Brandon Muir

My regular readers will recognize Brandy – that tow-headed imp who traveled throughout Borneo and Indonesia with S and I. Really astute readers will know that he is an accomplished mixed media artist and musician as well as just being an awesome friend. This photo of Gandhi playing baseball with Johnny Five caused quite a stir on Brandon's website – but in reality it's all about love. And robots. Isn't everything?

4)Tiny church – Oaxaca, Mexico

It is a wee little church, and inside is a rosary. See, I was raised atheist but I have a long standing fascination with Catholocism and it's archaic symbols and iconography and I love nothing more than Mexican religious icons – my favourite kind. Right in front of this shelf on the windowsill are a bunch of those big Mexican rolly-eyed Jesus candles - you know the kind, where his sacred heart is especially gruesome and Mary is looking all pious and virgin-y? Maybe it's the lingering ghosts of all of the Mayan human sacrifices, but Mexicans like their religion bloody and macabre. I do too.

Viewing the kitty from the side, my Grandma thought it was a camel with a big, ermm, member waving at her.

5)My Grandfather's pipe

My grandpa passed away 14 years ago, and this still smells a bit like his tabaccy. I would love to be that girl who sits and lights a pipe while drinking tea and reading with a monocle in one eye – I really would.

6)Waving Kitty – Seoul, South Korea

I have been through Incheon Airport 7 freakin' times in the last 5 years. The last time I said "Eff this" and bought myself the damn good luck cat. (If you put batteries in him, he waves!)

Screw the DSM-IV . This bunny is all you need.

7)Little Wind-Up Bunny Toy

My Grandma loved to give gifts on occasions like Valentine's Day and Easter – even as an adult she bought me little trinkets for like, St Patrick's Day. I think that she gave me this bunny when I was a teenager and the look on his wittle bunny face still melts my heart. If it doesn't melt yours you are probably a psychopath.

A friend once wrote this haiku: Violet from the block/born in the year of the cock/but where are the rocks?

8) Small Chinese Astrological Balls – Singapore

The first time I visted Singapore it was after a week in magical Vietnam – a week that my colleagues and I did NOT want to end. We were NOT impressed with Singapore – I had reverse culture shock. Everything was clean! Bright! Shiny! Expensive! Soul-less!

I finally felt a bit more at home when we discovered the winding roads and chaos of Chinatown – it was there that I found these neat little good luck charms. Perched on a ball of golden marble (or maybe it's some kind of jade?) are tiny little gold figures of the Chinese Horoscope. Mine is the rooster and S' is the pig, and while it strikes me as strange that everyone in the entire year is though to have the same characteristics, I got the cock so I am not complaining.

It's really a shame. He bought a cake and everything.

9) "Nobody ever comes to Ice T's theme parties" – Gift from Brandon Muir

Yep – that's Ice T by himself at his militant Power Rangers birthday party.

10)Small Ganesha – Gift from Mum

I wish I could say that this was from a small, smoke filled merchant's shop in a market near the caves of Ellora, but my Mum put this in my stocking like, this year. That does not diminish Ganesha's greatness – this god is the son of Shiva, has survived decapitation and re-capitation (with an elephant's head) and wrote the epic Maharabhata with his broken tusk. And he rides a rat. To quote Charlie in "It's Always Sunny"- "That is baaaaadassssss"

Oh come all ye faithful - to the nearest Mahayana Buddhist temple!

11) Small silver Jesus – found in my house

As I said earlier – I have quite the collection of Catholic iconography, but I think that someone must brought this over to my house and left it behind at a party or something because otherwise I have no idea where it came from. Maybe it magically appeared, like some really lame Lourdes-style miracle? Hang on, my palms are itching......

12) Marble Buddha – China Beach, Vietnam

This guy comes from the legendary Marble Mountain near Da Nang in Vietnam. The fact that he is raising his dish above his head signifies wealth and prosperity and I really like the fact that he is made of the tackiest marble ever and that he is so heavy you could kill someone with him.

Who wears short shorts? Oh. My Mum.

13)Photo of Mum – Florence, Italy

My Mum had me really young – teenager young – and as a result she missed out on a lot of experiences other young women get to have. But not when it came to traveling – when an opportunity came up for my Mum to tour Europe for a month with her then boyfriend my Grandparents insisted she leave 4 year old me behind with them and take off. This is a photo of her eating gelato in front of the Duomo in Florence - I love her perm (she insists it was stylish at the time) and just how ridiculously short her short shorts are.When she came home from this trip I would thumb eagerly through her photo albums and I think it gave me a sense of the wonder and mystery of travel and a fascination with Europe (and all of those statues and their big copper genitalia!) Viva Italia.

14) Small copper Sacred Heart – Los Angeles

S bought this for me this year for Christmas and I think I'm gonna loop a chain through it and wear it as a necklace.

Sit and Spin, Buddhist style.

15) Tibetan Prayer Wheel – Pokhara, Nepal

So, I have some pretty strong opinons on Tibet. And China. And China and Tibet. Which is why I was excited to visit a Tibetan Refugee Camp in Nepal and spend some Rupees there. I chose the goshdurned prettiest prayer wheel that I could find, handmade by the resident monks. In case you are unfamiliar with them, a prayer wheel is an ornately decorated spindle filled with a scroll inscribed with Buddhist prayers. It sits atop a handle, and when you shake it the motion propels a chained weight that keeps the wheel gently spinning around and around. The idea is that you are doubling up your prayers this way - sneaky.

Luh dese guys.

16) Papier Mache Owls – Rangoon, Burma

Oh Burma – just thinking about you makes me smile. Burmese people practice Buddhism, erm, differently... to say the least. Alongside Buddha they worship 32 "nats" – human/animal hybrids that are a remnant of pre-Buddhist animist traditions. These owl nats are a good luck symbol seen everywhere in the country – I had a few more different types but they broke, which is probably really bad luck. *adjusts collar*

17) Black Clay Pot – Huatulco, Mexico

Oaxaca state is known for its black volcanic clay – this pot is not glazed or painted – it is black through and through. Like your heart is if you don't like the wind-up bunny.

18)Sake Set – Gift from Mum

I wish wholeheartedly that this was from Japan, but it is from that neat dish store in Metrotown. Every time I can't think of something neat for a gift game or Secret Santa thing I trundle over to this shop and always find neat things. I let my Mum in on the secret a few years ago so that she would buy me these neat things. Now I have 6 sake sets and I probably need to put some back in storage. And do you wanna hear the bizarre part (although, aren't they all, Dear?)

Despite my devotion and near fanatic love for sushi and all of its accoutrements I have never tried sake, with the exception of a sake bomb from the Eatery here and there. It smells like nail polish remover to me, and I occasionally try a sip of X's plum wine (which I know is a whole different animal) and I hate that, so...yeah. I promise to try it. Maybe served in one of my 6 sets....

If one more person says "tatties," "tatts" or "inked" to me I will stab them with this.

19)Burmese Tattoo Kit – Mingun, Burma

I love tattoos. I mean, obvs. But I am decidedly NOT one of those people who wants to travel to Borneo or Fiji or Tonga and get poked and pounded with sticks and mud to create a traditional 'tribal' tattoo. There are a few reasons for this: I am still trying to remove and/or cover some of my own ill-advised "sick tribe" that I got done when I was a teenager; it actually does offend some of the locals who use those ritual tattoo processes for spiritual purposes (and haven't we co-opted enough "Native" culture around the world?) and I think it looks disastrously ugly.

That said, I really love this little kit. It consists of a looooong 2 piece needle with a Buddha head topper, a little ink well and a leather bound book that contains 22 traditional Buddhist/animist (they always mix in Burma) designs.

And though Burma and Thailand are like apples and oranges I am reminded of a cute story. When I was visiting Chatuchak floating market with my Thai friend Sam, one of the small shop's proprietors looked at my tattoos (humongous for Asia, and very uncommon on women) and said "Do you speak Thai?" When I shook my head no, he looked at my friend and spoke animatedly in Thai for a few moments, laughing. When I asked Sam what the man had said, he responded "In Thailand, we use tattoos to protect us and make us powerful. This man, he said that you must be VERY strong. No ghosts will come after you!" He was right. They haven't.

It's probably lead based. I am wary of using it on my face. But I could decorate the hell out of a cow with it!

20) Tikka powders – Varanasi, India

Oh, India. In a class on mass media I am studying the concept of 'pester power' – a term for the pleading, begging behaviour children exhibit in grocery stores and shopping malls after they have been bombarded with flashy commercials aimed at selling products to them. The whole time I have been reading and thinking about this phrase, I just keep thinking of an unrelated phenomena: the street vendors in India. In a different way, they have 'pester power' down to a science - even though I wanted one of these sets I ended up buying three – good thing they were only 20 rupees.

The chubby little vials are filled with the brightly coloured tikka powder used to give religious marks on people's third eye (between yo'brows) and also to draw designs on temple and foyer floors.

22) An ugly mask - The Maldives

Yep. Made in China.

Violet on the Block....

It always amazes me that there are still coffee shops that do not have wifi. I mean, a Timmy Ho's I can understand, I am talking about your socially conscious, free trade organic coffee shop where the baristas have ironic haircuts and berets. Don't they need the internets to download the latest Devendra Banheart album?

I digress. My point is that when you are enjoying a green tea and a piece of icing-heavy carrot cake (yoga will cancel this out – right? RIGHT?) while you wait for yoga to start and you realize that your writer's block may indeed be over you should have access to your blog. I mean, I had more free wifi in Cambodia. The Olympics are coming, Vancouver – and people want their wifi.

What's that bit I just said about writer's block? It's more of a 'blogger's block.' I am churning out fiction and poetry like a Bronte sister on meth, but the moment I stare at the happy orange and blue Blogger interface it all goes to hell. I have a dozen blogs half written – a particularly nice one about Jaisalmer, the top ten reasons I love LA and a piece about Vancouver's opium den history to name a few. Do you think I could finish them? Or, at the very least, stop thinking about finishing them and then beating myself up as I open another folder instead?

I like you guys. I really do. I don't want to lose you. You, ermm, complete me? Had me at hello? Take a piece of my heart? Shine on you crazy diamond (oh wait....)

Another confession – and I make this one with a grimaced face – I am back in school. University. Taking four courses, each with insane work loads. And tut tut tut- before you congratulate me and give me air high five - you do know what that means, right? It means that my every waking moment for the next 4 months will be consumed with reading, writing, panicking, drinking tea, panicking, drinking beer to forget the panic and reading. And more writing. And probably at least two (oh let's be honest – 4) fits of complete Klaus Kinski style hysteria. Will I have the time and the heart to blog for you?

(As an aside, the two week break that I get during the Olympics (yes, even the Universities here in my fair city are closing) is going to be filled up by another amazing opportunity – I am going to be leading the Vancouver Police Museum's "Sins of the City" walking tours, taking tourists through the seedy underbelly of Vancouver's not-too-distant past. Come and visit! Take a tour with me! Apparently the whole world is coming - you should too!)

Part of the problem is that my blog is about - and should continue to be about - my travels (being a tourist in your own city counts) and not just my random thoughts. Random thoughts are easy. That I can do every day or so and let you all know the weird and random pop culture and film crap that is flooding my brain at any given moment – but it's no 'majestic sweeping rice paddy' description. But then what happens to my archives? My hard work at crafting a travel website that I would read goes down the squat toilet and I end up just being another random musings blog. Do y'all like me enough for that?

Do I like me enough for that? Sigh.

So here's the rub – I promise to write about my past travels (and finish the Jaisalmer entry – I started it in the Philippines during a typhoon, for Shiva's sake) and my new travels and like, actual interesting activities but for the sake of my grades and (in)sanity I may also just spew out random thoughts as well. Is that okay? Are we all okay with this?

I hope so. And let's all just hope a girl can get some wifi up in here.

And just to blow all y'alls minds - this is what S and I look like when we are NOT disgusting backpackers.

Stuff I Like - December

Gangster knuckle tattoo, what?

1) My new tattoo

I know, I know. A hand tattoo. That's a pretty big commitment - but I have a few lovely rings that cover it perfectly for job interviews/high society functions/my own wedding type events. The decision came on the heels of another - I have decided to extend my half sleeves down to what are called "sushi sleeves" (3/4 length - names for the fact that sushi chefs usually are fully tattooed underneath their blouse-things) and I figured that one measly knuckle couldn't hurt. I was in LA last Monday and I just marched down to the nearest tattoo parlour and said "let's do this."

I like it. It makes me feel somehow more gangster despite the fact that I am not even gangster in the slightest - I'm like, the exact polar opposite. Well, despite the knuckle tattoo... Oh! And what does the V stand for? (other than Vodka, Vancouver, Violence and erm....) Violet, of course. You should all get one!

2)CocoRosie

Music starts at the 30 second mark. Watch this.

Let me start of by saying that I should, under any normal circumstances, hate CocoRosie. Freak-folk as a genre sounds like exactly the kind of thing that I would run screaming from whilst shoving my tiny fingers in my even tinier ears, but somehow this sister act snuck under my radar and made me a convert. From the moment that my BFF Xstina dragged me into her office and youtubed me to death with their videos I have been smitten with them, a near-romantic obsession. A strange blend of folk, hip hop, opera and children's musical toys, CocoRosie could easily veer into pretension and cliche, but somehow they manage to stay clear of awful and just make me happy instead. Of course, they live in Paris and are huge in Europe and you can sniff out a hipster by merely mentioning their name - but je vous aime. Le Sigh.

A lifelong dream, fulfilled. "I saw the best minds of my generation...."

3) Poetry

After a nearly 5 year hiatus I have been writing poetry like a teenager (let's just hope that it is better and less angsty than when I was a teenager.... eep!) No longer am I filling notebook after notebook - now it is all on m'little laptop, but it feels the same. Two, even three bouts of inspiration bombard my brain each day and I am just frantically trying to keep up and get it all out. Perhaps it was my November visit to San Francisco and the City Lights bookstore that triggered this renaissance of couplet and haiku, the swirling spectres of Ginsberg and Kerouac and Ferlinghetti rushing through my brain and tweaking and pulling at various synapses and making them crave an alternate form of expression. Or maybe I am just depressed and bored to be home....

The really unfortunate thing is that I happen to hate the word: Poetry. I don't think that there is another word out there that can make you seem so up your own ass, so incredibly pretentious and d-baggy than poetry. Shudder. So please don't ever call me a poet unless you want a beret up your keister. I own some. I am ready.

A different kind of Uke.

4) The Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain

I don't really feel that I need to say too much here about how great this is. It kind of speaks for itself. Especially when you watch them perform Lou Reed's 'Satellite of Love.' Bing Bang Bong, indeed.

They don't call me Violent Violet for nothin'.

5) Optimum Wound Comics

I'll admit - I'm not and never have been a super big comic-reading lady (with the exception of all of the Tank Girl and Sandman issues I could get my teenaged mitts on.) I'm not one of those girls who finds comfort while safely ensconced in the basking glow of nerd approval and the geek-points that obscure manga can accrue. I do, however, savour a hard boiled crime caper with film noir styling and that is why I love Jason Thibault's baby Optimum Wound (and it's stepchild Blunt Force Beating, for which I write sometimes.) I will admit that this is kind of a shameless plug for a close friend and his endeavours, but I have been psuedo-promised that this year Violet Dear's image may make a surprise appearance in one of his stories, Battles Without Living Witnesses (but probably as alter-ego, Violent Violet) and wouldn't y'all like to see that?

"It was an insignificant bullet" - Brandon's Klaus Kinski tattoo.

6) Werner Herzog

I have mixed feelings about Wernie's latest offering, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans but that doesn't change the fact that he is a member of my 'trimurti of favourite of living directors' along with "King of Venereal Horror" David Cronenberg (a fellow Canuck!) and the exquisitely surreal David Lynch. Recently, my good friend Brandon got himself a tattoo of Klaus Kinski in Herzog's "Aguirre, the Wrath of God" and I realized that I had never seen it. Once I picked my jaw back up off of the ground, I watched "Fitzcarraldo" and its accompanying documentary "Burden of Dreams." Amazing. I am now hooked. I try to watch a Herzog film (and there are about 100) once a week.

But really, the main reason that Herzog is unbelievably awesome comes from this anecdote here.

exs and ohs
Violet Dear

Violet Dear's Christmas Message to Friends and Readers

Many Christmas Cracker Hats....ALL AT ONCE! (And my late Grandfather's patented shoulder tea-towel)

This was written for my best friends yesterday - I decided I wanted to share it with you, dear readers...

Christmas Eve means a lot more to me than Christmas Day - it always has. My family celebrated on the Eve and the only Xmassy thing I did on the 25th was open Santa's gifts. For me, today IS Christmas.

I am sitting on my Mum's living room floor, surrounded by gifts and a beautifully decorated tree (thanks, X) with cats weaving their way around as they eat ribbons and claw at the pompoms on my new Mukluks. I'm listening to John Denver's "Rocky Mountain Christmas" and eating Mandarin oranges while I wrap some final presents. Sure, I am not filled with as much frantic Christmas excitement as I would have been 20 years ago, but it still feels good. It feels like a link in a chain of tradition that spans generations in my family.

What a year. What an insane amazing year! I spent 10 and a half months of it scaling mountains and climbing ruins, speaking Hindi and eating bugs - but my heart was always here with youse guys! (gag, I know - but it's Christmas time. C'mon....)

Last Christmas I felt gutted and wrung dry - completely homesick and missing my culture and traditions. As you may have heard me rant - India celebrates Christmas, ermmmm, incorrectly to say the least and I was regularly found drying my tears in front of "Nigella's Christmas Feast" clutching a peppermint latte (from the only Western coffee place nearby) humming "Silver Bells" under my breath. (On Christmas Day itself, I must admit I was not complaining - living on a boat in the Maldives kind of sucks the sadness from anyone....)

Throughout the year I had the chance to witness unparalleled beauty, often coupled with soul-crushing sadness. The smiles of orphanned children, the sweet nature of abused dogs, the collective pride of downtrodden nations. It all made me realize how unbelievably lucky we all are as we sit in our warm houses surrounded by Nat King Cole, Clark Griswold and the Grinch, smells of holiday cookies wafting through the air. We have so few problems comparatively - let's all be thankful and happy!

Of course, my year wasn't all travel - we had a time of unspeakable tragedy as Heppy lost her brother Evan - a pain that will continue for a long time to come - and as usual, in some sort of weird cosmic symmetry a time of happiness and discovery as I met my brother (Hi Tyler!) Both events will continue to shape and change my life forever.

And as anti-climactic and, in ways, depressing coming home from my giant trip can be it is worth everything just to be here and celebrate with my friends, my family and well, Nigella.

So you might feel all Bah-Humbuggy, you might say "Oh, f*%@ Xmas right in it's goatass" but just try to remember that today of all days is about reflection, family, joy and, let's face it - life.

I love alls y'alls - Merry, Happy, Joyous Christmas.

xoxo
Violet Dear

See, Jain, Think

My favourite quote.

During the Christmas season I know that we are supposed to reflect on family and friends and our good graces - but lately I have been getting a bit more esoteric than shortbread and giftwrap.

See, it was nearly a year ago exactly that I visted a humongous, strangely gawdy/beautiful Jain temple in Mumbai, where I was living at the time, and I am not sure if it is all the yoga I have been doing lately but I can't stop thinking about the quote pictured above.

Jainism is one of India's strangest religion - an offshoot of Hinduism that was first practiced 2600 years ago, around the same time that Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha, to you and I) was walking the countryside and creating his own religion, Buddhism. Jains are a super strict ascetic bunch who are so passionate in their vow of non-violence to ALL creatures that they sweep the ground in front of them as they walk (as to not step on bugs) and wear masks at all times (to avoid inhaling said bugs) - hell, they don't even eat food grown underground (that's the bug's food.) The practice is just common enough throughout India that many coffeeshops and hotels have special Jain menus. It is a fascinating and deeply tradition steeped religion - I am in awe of the Jains I have met.

You can see the weeks old bullet holes in the pillars at Leopold's.

A few days before Christmas (and our weeklong trip to the Maldives) my Mum, S and I toured downtown Mumbai mere weeks after the attacks, stopping to see the damage to the Taj Hotel and even having a drink at the iconic Leopold's (where 11 had been shot dead during the seige.) The Jain temple, one of the biggest in India, was the highlight of my day (even more than the vultures circling the Parsi 'Towers of Silence' - but that is another entry.)

"Every man is the architect of his own fortune." The quote written on the stairs in the temple hit me in the chest with its simplicity and wisdom - I had one of those cliched "A-Ha" moments (no, not one of those - one of these.) We were blessed with sandalwood tikka marks on our third eye and headed to another of Mumbai's sights - but this one was the most important to me.

The bowl filled with the fragrant sandalwood tikka for blessings.

So this Christmas, one year later, I reflect not on Jesus, not on Allah, not on Shiva - but on Jain wisdom and it's simple messages of non-violence and responsibility for oneself. Quit worrying about gifts and gossip and out-doing your neighbours. Worry about yourself, your own state of peace and your own joy. To be a navel gazing yogi - focus on this moment, right now and really live in it - make it perfect. If we all try this the world will be a better place. You are the architect of your own future. Remember that.

....and also remember, I do like gifts too. I'm not that spiritual.

Bless this S.

Before anyone writes me any outraged/patronizing/prosletyzing comments about Jesus please, please try to remember that every single one of the world's religions feels just as passionately as you do that they are the only RIGHT ones. You've made mistakes before, right? Like that time on that school trip? Or that time in Cabo? C'mon.

Autopsy Turvy....

Violet Dear goes on the strangest fieldtrips.

The Old Morgue is the coldest room in the building that stands at 240 Cordova Street in Vancouver's - hell, Canada's - most notorious neighbourhood: The Downtown Eastside. Here, amongst the tricks and johns and junkies stands the Coroner's Court. This art deco building (1932) houses the Vancouver Police Museum's collection of guns, gore and city-specific crime lore and just happens to be curated by my good friend Joanna.

She is the reason that I find myself here, in the sketchiest part of my fair city on this subzero degree day shivering and cursing the airplane that ever pried me from Fiji. As I am not working (thank you, S) until I start school I find myself with the luxury to volunteer and flit around for a while this December. Because I know that Joanna always needs help down at the Museum I decided to pop in for a few days to research some topics for their blog (and also here, natch.)

As I mentioned last week I am always fascinated by the turning shifts and changes in any city's history, especially mine. I don't know whether it is the traveler or the historian in me but I cannot think of a better spent afternoon than one elbow deep in the seedy underbelly of this Klondike port town turned beacon of livability. The Vancouver Police Museum - whose building also houses the former morgue and CSI lab - is at the navel of this belly (too far?)

Care for a cold one?

On this brisk December morning the old morgue was really, really cold. Perhaps that is why an infamous Vancouver coroner was known to keep one of the big slab drawers reserved exclusively for beer..... The rest of the morgue has been converted into a display showcase for some of the city's most infamous crimes pre 1960 - macabre cases of murder that make people gasp and tarnish our affable reputation. Who's livable now, bitches?

Sir, I am not willing to overlook your, um - warts.

Through the morgue is the autopsy room - famous for one very special visitor, one Mr. Errol Flynn, legendary film actor of Robin Hood and swashbuckling fame. In 1959 a nearly bankrupt Flynn arrived in Vancouver, a 17 year old plaything in tow, to sell a yacht to a wealthy local businessman. After a few days of parties and rich food he retired to his room on Burnaby Street (mere blocks from my old heritage building on Jervis) complaining of a sore back. He was discovered dead hours later by the girl and transported to the City Morgue for his autopsy.

Over the next few days press and gossip rags from around the world descended on Vancouver to dissect the case of Flynn's death. The news of his humdrum heart attack was spiced up by his practically pubescent companion (when approached at the airport as to why he always had such young women with him he replied "because they f*%$ so good!") and the fact that his wife was safe at home in Hollywood, oblivious to teenager's existence.

No mention of any unmentionables in the autopsy report.

But most gossip centred on Flynn's most, ermmm, prodigious feature. Women were said to line up by the hundreds to try and catch a glimpse of his member - but would they have felt the same way if they had known what coroner Glen McDonald had known? Flynn had been afflicted by "huge VD warts," four of which McDonald's partner removed and set in formaldehyde. Upon some consideration of the potential scrutiny their handiwork may face during a second autopsy in Los Angeles the coroners elected to replace the VD warts - with scotch tape. Apparently, no further questions were asked of the duo regarding the subject. It seems they got away scotch free (way too far, yeah? Sorry. It's been a pun-filled day.)

I emerged from the morgue feeling that warm (now there's irony) sense of connection to my city's history and my forebearers lives that can only come from setting your feet (and keister) where those who have come before you have stood. Joanna had many, many more surprises to show me in the Coroners Court building - downstairs and down, downstairs hold many treasures (Tommy guns! Opium pipes! Old crime labs! Mannequin after mannequin!) that I will tell you about very soon.

In the meantime, try not to get Shanghaied as you wait for my post on Vancouver's seedy opium history. You'd best also try to avoid Mr. Flynn's, ermmm, condition as well....

Atmospheric Autopsy Shot to end with.

Stuff I Like - November

Me and two of my BFFs - Jason and Kevin (not my cat - see below)

1) My friends.

OK, OK - I know it's sappy but man, did I ever miss all of my friends.

I traveled for a long time, met a ton of amazing people (here is one of their awesome blogs) and had a lot of late night beer (and in Australia, wine) fueled conversations, and yet here back in my home city I have the funniest, happiest, most intelligent and let's face it - good looking - group of pals any gal could ever ask for. I just wanna hug the hell out of all of them and never leave again.

(See what I just said there about not leaving ever again? We all know that is a lie, but I can pretend. For now.)

Ms. Beatrix Fruitbat. As someone asked me last night "Well, for miss and mizz what is the difference between the S and the Z?"
I deadpanned "Um, the difference is like Zebra versus Sebra. Um, duh?"

2) My cats.

I realized something recently - I never talk to you guys about my cats. And that's weird - because I pretty much talk about them all the time. I am an official crazy cat lady. I have had Mister Kevin (Kevin for short) and Beatrix Fruitbat (Trixie) for 6 years next month and as irritating as it is to clean their litter box and shove angry clawing cats into carriers for their annual vet check up I am smitten. It's gross. I talk to them all high pitch-y and do that thing pet owners do when we ask our animals a series of questions: "What are you doing? Whatcha doin' Mr Muffin Monkey Pants? I love you! You're a lover, arentcha? Are you a lover?" (This is an actual exchange Kevin and I had this morning.) I'll be the first to admit that cats can be kind of shitty pets (they are not 'aloof' and 'intelligent' they just have small brains) but I am happy with my guys. I'm just waiting for them to finally answer all those questions I keep asking....

3) The Rickshaw Theatre

There is always something about the worst, crackiest neighbourhoods in a city that attracts hipsters and artists. My city has the worst skidrow in North America (no, seriously. Yeah, we have socialized medicine and decriminalized marijuana and are all liberal and shit, but we aren't like, Sweden. We have problems.) and it lies smack dab in the middle of the most historic and special area of the city, spilling over into touristy Chinatown and even touristier Gastown - it's not uncommon to see horrified groups of cruise ship passengers shielding their children's eyes from the sight of junkies shooting up next to jib-dancing sex trade workers. Like, at 11am. The buildings are spectacular, the cobble stone streets are charming and the businesses of what was once Vancouver's healthy, bustling shopping district have closed - yet slowly gentrification is setting in. People who look like me want to go to shows and restaurants and dive bars in the "Downtown Eastside" and some shrewd business people have recognized the humongous money making potential of catering to us.

For years my friends and I have ironically slummed it at hip hop nights at the Columbia and Astoria and slammed pints of beer at the comically named Funky Winkerbeans - but I have never seen such an ambitious restoration as the Rickshaw Theatre (took me a while to get here - to the point - but I did.) Formerly a chopsocky kung fu theatre in the seventies, this theatre has been gutted and beautifully restored into a rocknroll venue - a night club with theatre seating rather than tables. Half of the seats have been removed to all for more milling around room, and the gently sloping floor allows for shorty-pantses like me to actually see the stage. I love it. And I love the fact that sometimes all it takes is one revitalized space in an area to kick off a renaissance. Vive le Jank.

I am actually blushing right now.

4) Neil Diamond

It just is. Lately I can't stop myself from repeatedly pressing play on the sweet sounds of the Jewish Elvis. I actually have seen Neil in concert (as well as Nearly Neil once) and I could hardly keep myself from throwing panties at the stage, although I was with my Grandma at the time, and trust me - I was too busy holding her back to have time to do so...

There is something so amazingly innocuously sexy about seventies Neil -well here, snuggle up with this. You'll be glad you did.

No, seriously. Go see it.

5) Precious

You know how some years there is a movie that everyone is like "Oh, yes - you simply must see and if you don't you are a cretin and I don't even want to know you?"
Well, this time they are right..... I emerged from the theatre after seeing this film feeling raw and gutted, my face red and my eyes puffy. I was afraid to speak words to my friend Alexis for fear that I would do that sputtering thing and just lose it right there in the lobby. Precious doesn't go for obvious tear jerking - it is fresh and original and really, really disturbing.
"I feel like I have been to war" I remarked to my friends when I could finally speak. And I'll put this here on the record: if Mo'Nique does not win the Best Supporting Actress Oscar I will never watch them again. And I like, LOVE the Oscars.... Serious. Go see this movie.


(PS - I am aware that this is being posted in December - won't happen again. Pinkie swear.)

Must be the Weather....

The forecast for the week in Vancouver as I was leaving San Francisco. Rain rain rain rain rain rain.

I know, I know. I've done the typical thing - arrived home, sat on my ass and haven't posted in a week. I am so overwhelmingly tired (not to mention busy seeing friends and getting, let's face it, tipsy) that the idea of re-sizing photos and writing something witty seems like an insurmountable chore. I'm drained.

The weather probably does not help - Vancouver's patented dark grey skies and mix of rain and waiting-for-rain has been known to sap the creativity and energy out of many a soul. It has been sunny for a total of one hour in the last week - literally.

But this weekend I am going to hunker down and spend a few hours getting re-aquainted with cropping and captioning and witty one liner-ing. It's coming. I promise. Hell, you'd have SAD too....

See you soon -
Violet Dear