Being Ruth-Less....

...is not a good thing*

I have been mulling for the last couple of days on my Friday post for this week, to no avail. I've shoved nostalgia, News of the world, travel and meditative offerings through the Baroness kaleidoscope - what could possibly be left?

Imagine, then, my delight when this came across my desk - the logical bookend for this past Monday's entry (ok, ok, it was technically Sunday's, but let's not get bogged down in the details - my weeks start on Sunday. Sue me, Schlomo).

She had to come from somewhere, and this explains A LOT...

Safe trick or treating, y'all.



* astute observation courtesy of Chesapeake Bay Woman. (LOVE this!!!)

Thoughtful Thursday

I may have mentioned before that I've become hooked on a show on The Sundance channel called "Iconoclasts".

This show pairs two social icons; they spend time with each other and talk about each other's influence on each other and on the world . Sometimes, at first glance, the combination seems highly odd. But near the middle of the show, the commonalities woven between the two far outnumber the differences.

Past shows have paired Dave Chapelle and Maya Angelou, Deepak Chopra and Mike Myers, Mikhail Barishnikov and food guru Alice Waters. The episode I just watched combined Archbishop Desmond Tutu with Richard Branson.

You would think that Desmond Tutu would rank right up there in spiritual 'otherness' with the Dalai Lama.

Sure, the man is an icon, and considered one of the world's most esteemed "Elders" - but what I saw was a man with a who giggled like a schoolgirl, told corny jokes, and was not too proud to admit he needed swimming lessons. He is human, and it is this humility that shapes his spirituality.

Today's TT comes from one of the many books in my personal library that have to do with what I constantly struggle with - finding purpose and meaning in one's life.

It's called "The Call: Discovering Why You are Here", and the quote is this:

"The truth is, no life is inherently more 'spiritual' than another, no personality or set of ego characteristics more readily available to an awareness of the still and sacred presence we are than another. All personalities have slightly different struggles on the road to waking up to who we are and why we are here.

Some will have to sit with the urge to strike out when angry while some will have to struggle with the tendency to repress anger and the consequences that brings. Some may have to learn to be quiet more often while others have to learn to speak out. Some may need to act more quickly or more often while others more frequently need to sit still and wait.

We all have patterns of behaviour and preferences that come from a combination of our inherent temperment and developmental learning, just like we have certain physical characteristics as a result of nature and nurture...This does not mean that we are doomed to unconsciously live out the patterns of our ego. It means that we have to know ourselves, have to bring to consciousness with deep honesty our tendencies and patterns, our strengths and weaknesses, our vulnerabilities and fears, if we are to find freewill choices in how we live."

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Something New...

Here in the Wanderlust Wednesday World of the vonBloggenschterns, we're all reasonably normal.

Oh, sure, we can trot out the quirky with the best of them. But in our gated community on the mellow little left-hand side of the country, on most (?) things, we are right in there with the status quo. And even though Canada is thought to be far, far away - I can assure you that we pretty much have the same reference points as the rest of North America.

Say, if I were to ask all of you fine readers to fill in the blanks, I know for a fact that none of you would have a moment's hesitation to come up with at least 5 things:

"It goes together like ________(blank) and __________(blank)"

(C'mon. Do it. I know you want to.)

I also know for a fact that your answers and my answers would not be too far off.

Cookies and milk.

Bacon and Eggs.

Starsky and Hutch.

Peaches and Herb.

Seal Flipper Pie and Maple Syrup.

Leave it then to oh-so-edgy Toronto to screw up all of this bonhomie and commonality with their weird entry: "Cows and Museums". Oh ho, ho - what will these lunatics think of next? Hockey players and donuts? That is just never gonna fly, let me tell you.

The hotel we stayed at during our last unvaccinated trip back east was almost directy across the street from the stunning Royal Ontario Museum:

The ususual feature of this museum is its integration of the old with the new. In and of itself, the Crystal Wing is absolutely eye-catching:

What also managed to catch my eye, the first day I ventured out for a morning of some rib-stickin' breakfast and exploring , was a paddock of dairy cows just outside this structure.

Not only were there cows, complete with Mr. Greenjeans, but surrounding the pen were a slew of white-coated chefs. Totally weird and, without any other visual clues to put things into context, more than a little off-putting.

I know that here in Vancouver we pride ourselves in having the highest quality seafood for our sushi, but this is kind of taking fresh ingredients to a new level.

"Yes, Francois - I'll have the steak tartar, and I choose that spotted one right over there. Merci beaucoup."

I meandered over to try and make sense of the hubbub. There was a Dairy Farmers of Ontario milk truck, a few suits, some photographers, and a half set-up podium.

I asked one of the chefs what was going on, and he said he didn't really know. Dude, you've got filet mignon on the hoof here, and you don't really know? Gah. Asshat.

I looked for a bit, dismissed the whole event as yet another pretentious 'Toronto Thing' and told #56:

"I sincerely hope you have a good day. Really. Good luck. "

When I returned to the hotel later that afternoon, I noticed there was no trace whatsoever that would have hinted at the early activities of the day.

Well, except for this new item on the hotel lounge's menu:

(photo source: hip hostess )

Ahhhh. Fresh.

God Bless, ya, #56. You did have a good day, after all.

Scientifically Proven

Part I of a new 'Baroness Sporadic Series' - "Torn From the Headlines Tuesday"...

"Marijuana can cause psychosis in healthy users: Study"

Scientists at the Institute Of Psychiatry at King's College in London made this earth-shattering discovery a result of testing on 22 healthy men in their late 20s.

Namely, the 22 scientists at the IOP at King's College.

Methodology involved giving placebo injections to some subjects while administering a dose of THC to others. It was observed that there existed a link between the active chemical in marijuana and hallucinations which left the sufferers 'unable to know what is real and what is imagined'.

After a post-trial celebration feast of Big Gulps, taquitos, several dozen donuts, nacho chips , 30 Megabags of strawberry Twizzlers and five throw pillows perceived to be giant blue marshmallows, team leader Dr. Paul Morrison concluded "...findings confirm that THC can induce a transient acute psychological reaction in psychiatrically well individuals."

Dr. Morrison's statement incurred the wrath of another team member, Dr. Robert "Bonghead"
Percival-William.

"Pauly, you bloody douchebag. Shut the f*ck up already with all this 'crazy' talk - you are so harshing my buzz - I was just about to make my patented moves on Dr. Sexy over there - that supermodel scientist has been quietly ogling me from her little corner for years!"

To which Dr. Morrison leaned forward into this reporter's microphone and with a raised eyebrow solemnly intoned, "Proof positive."

"The 'Dr. Sexy' Percival-William is referring to is our laboratory's human skeleton."

How Green Was My Valley

In the summer between high school graduation and first year university, I took it upon myself to get a job. I was tired of begging for silly little things that I most certainly did not need, but most certainly did want.

Up until this point in time, my father flatly refused to allow me to have a job; with his lower-middle class income; come tax time, he needed all the dependants he could get. And since I was an only child, prematurely losing me to the work force would cut that crucial number by a whopping 50%.

I should point out that my life up until this point was bland. Suburban, over-protected, sheltered to the point of wondering if I had Stockholm Syndrome. Bland. Bland. Bland.

Any knowledge of life came from television sit-coms; any knowledge of sex and its intricacies were gleaned from general hearsay, countless library visits to the Science section, and the discovery of Erica Jong. I had a vague idea of the physics of it all, but in practical terms, with nary a boyfriend throughout my years in school, I was hopelessly naive.

Cut to my new, exciting, inner city job as a hotel chambermaid.

Enter Ruth.

Rough talkin’, hard drinkin’, fast livin’ Ruth. Ruth who liked to party with cowboys. Ruth who was known to get in a scuffle now and again. Ruth who had done time in the hoosegow. Ruth who didn’t always go right home from work. Ruth whose frantic husband would call the housekeeping office the next afternoon, trying to locate his wandering bride.

Ruth who taught me more about life and work ethic and how the world turns in those first two months than I had learned in the prior 17 years leading up to that July.

To weasel one’s way into Ruth’s good graces was to walk amongst the lofty upper echelon of the Housekeeping Department. If there is such a thing.

Whatever knowledge I may have lacked due to being pitifully sheltered? I more than made up for in my book smarts and wicked crazy research skills. I knew full and well how to win Ruth’s respect. All it would take would be good ol’fashioned hard work. And lots of it.

It did not take long before I had set myself apart from the rest of the motley crew. I was now the ‘go-to’ person upon whom Ruth would call if she needed to get the job done fast and efficient-like.

One morning, we were advised by the front desk that we would need to clear an entire floor to accommodate the impending arrival of a busload of tourists. After our pre-work coffee, Ruth barked in my general direction, “You’re with me on 4. Let’s move it.”

Here it was. My chance for greatness. My call up to the bigs.

For most of the morning, she and I just busted it out, working in silence; two ballerinas in an effortless, pine-scented choreography. I would scrub bathtub rings, she would dust. I would tuck in sheets, she would vacuum. I deluded myself into thinking that the Hotel Doyenne was slightly impressed with my perfect little hospital corners. It was when I eschewed our coffee break in the interest of time that she may have even fallen in love with me a little. Whatever. All I knew was at that point, her demeanour shifted ever so slightly, and I was privilege to witness a Ruth that few knew – thoughtful, smiling, playful.

This silliness all came to a head as we neared the end of the rooms. After stripping the bed, Ruth knelt down to check out if there were any goodies left behind underneath on the floor, as she had hundreds of times before. She emerged from just above the horizon of the mattress, holding what looked like a plain brown lunch bag. I glanced over to watch her peek inside and raise her eyebrows.

“Well, looky here”, she smirked.

I must admit, I was intrigued. What mystery could it be that could possibly evoke any reaction at all from seen-it-all Ruth? And in a lunch bag, no less? Was it someone’s stash? A über-raunchy porno mag? Huge wads of cash?

As she passed me the bag across the expanse of the mattress, she lightly flicked the outside surface; the bag began to hum.

Still, I was blithely oblivious. Yeah, I know. Shut up.

I gingerly took the bag and snuck a peek.

“Ya-a-a-aah! Jeeeeesus, Ruth!”, I yelped.

As meteoric the speed as I dropped the vibrator was the speed at which Ruth dropped to her knees, laughing so violently as to start gasping for air. She cackled so hard I thought she was going to give herself an asthma attack.

“Just how stupid are you, anyway, girl?” she wondered between guffaws.

“Ummmm - pretty fucking stupid?”, I offered.

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

Wiping her eyes, her laughter slowly subsiding, Ruth shot me a rare dazzling smile. She had been the one to bust my green suburban naivete cherry, and she knew it. The master and her pupil, sequestered in Room 425 of the Holiday Inn.

In that moment, that bio-dome that my parents had so lovingly constructed began to get a fatal architectural flaw.

And life – real, true, funny, bizarre, humming life – began to trickle through.

Thoughtful Thursday

Time was, once upon a time when the Baroness was young and unfettered, there would be no hesitation whatsoever in going to events solo.

I didn't need a crew; I was happy enough with my own company. Dining alone meant an opportunity to combine two of my favorite pastimes, eating and reading. Movies alone? Notepad in hand, slightly aloof disposition - I just pretended that I was a film critic.

But now, I don't know what has shifted. With the embarrassment of cultural riches that are making their way through our burg: Bela Fleck , David Sedaris, "Puppetry of the Penis" (strangely but sadly unrelated to the David Sedaris reading, btw), The 22nd Vancouver International Writers and Readers Festival, flamenco dance performances, chamber music recitals, medical lectures, "Evil Dead: The Musical", I am jazzed up yet highly reluctant to go it alone. And it is vexingly irksome.

Damn you, Greeks, or whoever invented 'agoras' that one could become phobic about.

Another act I would be intrigued to see is Ani DiFranco. Not too long ago, my good friend The Book Pusher (who sometimes does double-duty as The Music Pusher) gave me a CD with some of this talented woman's songs on it - I was immediately charmed by the clever lyrics.

Today's rumination:

". . .We got egos like hairdos
They're different every day
Depending on how we slept the night before. . ."

May you all be having a good hair day - manageable, full-bodied, and oh so shiny.

Namaste, You Gossip-Mongering Bitch

(Tina's Groove, by Rina Piccolo)

Thoughtful Thursday

A very wise man once told me the best way to measure a society is by how well it treats its seniors and its children.

Given the headlines in our local news, as a man stands trial for allegedly killing his three small children, 'to save them' - maybe we're not doing such a great job.

And because Mia Farrow and Angelina Jolie can only be so many places at once, maybe it's up to us to step forward, to reach out, to lift up, to hold dear.

On those days when one's children are driving one to distraction, when the slow burn starts it ascent, when the whack-o-meter is being jacked up to 11?

Just stop.

Breathe.

Repeat as necessary.

And think about this plea to those we love, and to those who have no advocate:

"...We pray for children who put chocolate fingers everywhere, who like to be tickled, who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants, who sneak popsicles before supper, who erase holes in math workbooks, who can never find their shoes...

And we pray for those who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire, who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers, who never "counted potatoes", who are born in places in which we wouldn't be caught dead, who never go to the circus, who live in an X-rated world.


We pray for children who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions, who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish, who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money, who cover themselves with Band-aids and sing off-key, who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink, who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those who never get dessert, who have no safe blanket to drag behind them, who watch their parents watch them die, who can't find any bread to steal, who don't have any rooms to clean up, whose pictures aren't on anyone's dresser, whose monsters are real...


We pray for children who spend all their allowance before Tuesday, who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick their food, who like ghost stories, who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub, who love visits from the tooth fairy, who don't like to be kissed in front of the school bus, who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone...


And we pray for those whose nightmares come in the daytime, who will eat anything, who have never seen a dentist, who aren't spoiled by anybody, who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep, who live and move and have no being.

We pray for children who want to be carried and for those who must, for those we never give up on and for those who will grab the hand of anyone kind enough to offer it.

Hear our cries...and listen to our prayers. Amen."

Ina J. Hughes

Something Old...

. . . Behold Exhibit A:

Okay, okay, okay. Not really that old.

But today, thanks to whatever pathogen has so deftly lodged itself in my cells, I positively feel like this:

... but with less of the silky tresses and sparkly eyes. We both, however, could do with a really good mani/pedi, and some moisturizer.

Never the less.

With Wednesday, comes the sometimes regular/sometimes constipated Wanderlust Wednesday, in which I present to you sad photography from around the world (courtesy of the mad SLR skills du moi).

Today's subject: Toronto's Hockey Hall of Fame:

Fact: The second most prevalent religion in Canada, behind Christianity, is Hockey.

Not unlike Muslims making The Hajj to Mecca, Jews making Aliyah to Israel, Roman Catholics converging on Vatican City, we Canadians have an inherent obligation to make a pilgrimmage to the HHOF at least once in our lifetimes.

(More than once, and you get a punch card for a Tim Horton's coffee and donut)

But you say, "Baroness, surely you are exaggerating. This is not religion".

And I would say back to you, "But I'm not exaggerating - would you believe me if there were a sign?"

And then you would say, "Like a sign from God?"

And then I would say, "Well, okay."

"If you consider God to be the creator, and he created the creators who created this sign..."

Hell-oooooooo?

Cath-edral?

Tem-ple?

Now I may not be the most religious person in the world, but even I can understand that those aren't words that one throws around lightly.

This is serious stuff, people. Much learning to be done.

So here's what I culled from my first experience at the Cathedral:

1. Some hockey players were actually psycho killers in the off-season:

Potential Looney , "Never Trust a Man With 2 First Names", #1

Potential Looney, "Name's Ken, but you can call Me Freddy", #2

2. Some were possibly porn stars (or at least had the correct hair/mustache combo*):

3. Some hockey players had never heard of putting cedar balls in the clothes closet to repel moths (or maybe they just didn't get the memo)
(because maybe memos hadn't been invented yet) :


4. She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really is everywhere, and apparently has her own hockey team:

5. I too, apparently, had my own hockey team, The vonBloggenschtern Blustering Bulldogs. Although, apparently, the team never actually hit the ice, as it went bankrupt trying to pay for all the iron-on letters for the jerseys:

6. Whoever is in charge of stocking the giftshop is a misogynistic asshat. Oh, sure, there are jerseys and jackets and sticks and pucks and coffee mugs. Lamps and mousepads, even.

But what about Maple Leaf tiaras, like the soulful Lady Byng is rocking? I would have SO bought one of those. Maybe three. Your loss, suckers:


There is a quaint little Canadian saying, "At the end of the learnin', there should be somethin' to make it all worthwhile".

(yeah, alright already - it's not so quaint)

(or Canadian, really)

(just roll with me here - I don't have the energy to think of a fierce segue...)

At the end of all the Cathedral-esque factoids I had taken into my heart and soul, it was time for the piece de resistance.

The Holy Grail of Hockey.

Or, as the final winning team refers to it, The Champagne Glass/Ice Cream Bowl/Baby Tub/Whatever-I-damn-well-want-to-Put-in-it Cup.

As you can see from the second picture, the building that the Hockey Hall of Fame resides in was once a bank. On the top floor of the hall, the curators have done an amazing job to keep the 1800's vibe going on - there has been loving restoration; the room that the Cup sits in has a domed ceiling with lovely stained glass. One must follow the way up a set of stairs in this direction:

With each step, the angels' singing becomes clearer. At the top of the stairs, the sun's rays burst through the stained glass directly onto the cup:

"La, la, la, laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

With God as my witness, it was a truly religious experience.

Well, for my husband, at least.

I'm still kinda pissed about the whole tiara thing.
********************

* I only know this through vague hearsay

Really.

Welcome to 'The Irksome' part of the program.

If you would be so kind as to indulge me for just a moment, let me proffer this sad little cliche:

- Life is short -

Really.

It is.

Take it from me; one who's had her mortality dangled in front of her like a withered, brownish carrot.

I'm presently irked and appalled by all of the things that seem to be eating into this finite time we all have on earth. (I realize this post may be pointless for the increasing number of vampires among you - maybe you just want to skip today; I'll understand).

Which leads to my rant of the day, snidely & wearily entitled "Is It Necessary?"

Because, I have had it with so many, many atrocities against manners and taste.

Against kindness and civility.

Really.

I've just had it.

For instance - is it necessary to go off on a little teenaged shopgirl who's only doing her job? At minimum wage? Who's only parroting company policy? Who, at $8 an hour, was somehow not eligible to be present at the board meeting where said policies were cobbled out?

No, it is not.

But it is the lazy way out. Why bother seeking out management, someone who may be able to have some sort of influence over policy?

Why. Bother.

It's so much easier to lace into someone directly in front of you.

Is it necessary to be so completely ingrained in ignorance and personal mythology that you will refuse service from someone who doesn't look 'normal'? And beyond that, is it necessary to do everything in one's power to make that person feel leperous and ashamed? And to make one's viral opinion loudly known to all around them?

Is it necessary to spew out every little iota of idea, feeling, or impulse that runs through one's mind in what should instead be an inner monologue? Is it necessary to thoughtlessly monopolize a conversation, time and again? Does it never occur that the only voice one only hears is one's own? Does that not seem odd?

No, to make an effort to be inclusive would take discipline and foresight.

Instead, let it flow forth. Leave it to the poor person who's in the path of this torrent to filter out what's necessary to know and what's not. Why take responsibility? It is the act of communication, after all. It doesn't always have to run both ways.

Is it necessary to complain incessantly? To no one and everyone, hoping that someone will rally around the cause and magically make things right again?

Is it necessary to preface every sentence with phrases like, "It drives me crazy"?

Really?

Crazy?

Do you want to stay with that? Because I have seen some crazy, and you're far from that destination. Are you sure you don't mean, 'It really is annoying', or 'It bothers me'? Is it necessary to be so superlative? Is what you're saying truly the most accurate thing?

What about the uber-irksome: "F*ck my life"? Is it necessary to plaster this all over every social messenging site? Is is necessary to perpetuate this negativity with its own website?

Think for a moment about the magnitude, - the sheer power - of those words. Is this really what you mean?

Really?

The fact that you've got a life at all is pretty damned spectacular. More that you are able to realize at this moment in.

You. Have. Life. And if you were to actually stop your bitching and moaning, and take a mere moment of introspection, you would have to begrudgingly admit that it's maybe not so bad.

Is it necessary to tear down others in order to feel good about one's self? I'm almost certain that if the same energy (or even less) was spent in doing something to raise one's own self, it would be far more satisfactory. And far less hurtful.

It is necessary to envelop oneself in an seemlessly endless vortex of high drama, every goddamned day, and pull everyone in with the force of nature you've created? Your skill is such that you can manipulate virtual strangers to despair for you, to bleed for you, to suffer mightily along beside you. Is this necessary? Is there no other support system close to you that can give you strength?

I guess with this point there's the flip side - is it necessary to feel empathy for whatever you're reading or hearing about your acquaintances?

On this one, I would say yes.

It is necessary.

It is the quality that sets the kind apart from the cruel.

I just don't believe it's necessary to abuse that quality.

Really.

Thoughtful Thursday

Ferragamo, Blahnik, Louboutin, Choo.

I have always maintained that shoe designers were secretly members of The Illuminati - masterminds of a New World Order.

A world where, thanks in no small part to their contributions, everyone will first and foremost have glorious foot coverings.

The order part will come later. One must feel sassy to begin the upheaval, non?

This quote, posted in Toronto's Bata Shoe Museum further solidifies my belief:

"To be carried by shoes,
be winged by them,
To wear dreams on one's
feet is to begin to give
reality to one's dreams."

Sage words courtesy of one Monsieur Roger Vivier.

Sole Man.

NYC North

Greetings from the Great White North. East Side.

It's the closest one can get to the Big Apple without being subjected to humiliating cavity searches and insipid duty tariffs.

Call it The Big Plum. The Big Pomello. The Big Pomegranate.

So, yeah. My erstwhile travel companion and I are in Canada's answer to New York City (but really - who asked?). He's doing business-ney-like things, and I will be partaking of all that this city has to offer.

Which, in my estimation - after doing some little early recon work - appears to be an average of 3 Starbucks per city block, with some foofy boutiques & falafel restaurants thrown in.

As I haven't really had much of an opportunity to do much sightseeing pre-planning, I will embrace that old chestnut which seems to work for dozens of other women:

Something Old:

Site 1

Something New:

Site 2

Something Borrowed:

Site 3

Something OOohhh:

Site 4

More to follow, once I get bailed out for drooling on these:

*********************
In case you might be interested:

Site 1 is The Hockey Hall of Fame
Site 2 is The Royal Ontario Museum
Site 3 is Bata Shoe Museum
Site 4 is called David's, but in reality is Baroness code word for 'Nirvana'

Indie Ink Dot Org

'Composition. Not Competition'.

This is the brilliant tag line for the newly-launched Indie Ink.org, a modern version of The Algonquin Roundtable meets Life magazine.

For here you will not only find a wide variety of exceedingly well thought-out and articulate essays & poetry, but also photographs that are simultaneously beautiful and evocative.

All chosen by the discerning eye of a highly-talented editrix, with a critical audience in mind. Because let's face it - we here in the blogosphere are a pretty tough crowd.

With a voracious appetite for the new, the different, the edgy, the resonant, Indie Ink offers a invaluable service to its visitors - it filters through all the works that the Interwebs has swirling around and distills it down to present the potent artistry that is out there, waiting to intoxicate us.

Not entirely unlike those afternoons at the Algonquin with Parker and Benchley.

Olive or maraschino cherry, there is something for every taste.

Read now - write now.