It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. ~Theodore RooseveltAnd this is why I have all the time in the world for those brave enough to make an informed opinion without fear of reprisal. Long live editorialized news.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The People in the Arena
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Miss Saigons of Dufferin Mall
I was determined to not go back if I could help it. The last time I was at that cheap nail salon I left in a rage and threatened to call the Better Business Bureau. I remember my dad using that threat on sleazy salesmen growing up and thought it might work on the nail artists who charged me extra for a pedicure because I refused to pay in cash.
Alas, their late business hours, convenience to my house, and competitive prices sent me crawling back in shame with my nail fashion emergency.
You know the place. Where everyone's name is "Tammi" and they call you "honey" and double-check five times to make sure you don't want bio-gel on your nails even though you've politely declined seven times. The kind of place littered with decaying fashion magazines and scrupulous disinfecting habits, where they twitter about in their native Asian tongue, doing half-ass jobs on a foot massage, but you still love it because it's the most attention your poor feet have received in months.
A calendar hung on the wall with a Vietnamese woman dressed as Miss Saigon. A tacky reminder of home, I thought.
I was soaking my nails in polish remover when I received a phone call I had to take from work. I needed my television host to tape a quick hit and directed him and the camera man on what we needed to do. A few minutes later I received another phone call on my personal cell I had to take. "Tammi" appeared shocked I had two phones. How could anyone be so busy they needed two phones. By that time two Tammi's had joined in.
"What you do for work? Why you need so many phone?" they demanded.
I explained the television news business doesn't stop, especially for a producer, and why it's important to separate business from work, even if it's placebic in its desired effect. By now I was surrounded by three small Vietnamese women curious about the television industry and mistaking me for some kind of hot shot.
In their very broken English, they asked me about the news of the day, what I thought about Obama, Middle East tensions, and pop culture all the while my nails were receiving a top coat. Only half the time did I understand what they were saying, but it felt like we were having some kind of cultural breakthrough and the sins of the past were forgotten on both our parts.
One woman in particular seemed to appreciate how demanding my job could be and then stunned me with a sincere question.
"You think our job hard?" she asked. What she was really asking is if I thought my job was more important than theirs.
My mind raced through a decade of cheap nail salon experiences and the storage shed of quiet judgment I had built.
"Yes. Yes, I do," I replied.
She pushed further. "How?"
"Well, for starters," I said, "you mess with all sorts of nasty feet, hunching your back all day, listening to privileged white women drone on about their white women problems. You have to pretend to care. You have to laugh at their unfunny jokes and smile through their patronizing tones."
At this point I was sure I had lost them. But I hadn't. They laughed in surprise at how much I seemed to understand and I watched their defenses completely melt. We spoke some more about bad news going on in the world. When it was time to pay, they didn't fuss over the fact I used a debit card and they didn't over-charge me.
The oldest Tammi said, "maybe next time you tell us good news."
I immediately started to rummage through my purse, as delicately as I could (my nails were still drying from the polish), for my personal phone. There was a photo from a newspaper I had seen earlier that had melted all my work stress away, albeit briefly, and I wanted to share that photo with them in the hopes that it would set their work world right too.
They waited patiently as I impatiently waited for the wireless signal to download the photograph of a young Afghan girl, awkwardly and proudly holding a lamb in her arms. It was truly a picture of innocence.
The Tammi's crowded together to squint at my phone's small screen. They coo'd over the picture in Vietnamese. Then the oldest Tammi said in English, "she peaceful."
Yes. She peaceful indeed.
Alas, their late business hours, convenience to my house, and competitive prices sent me crawling back in shame with my nail fashion emergency.
You know the place. Where everyone's name is "Tammi" and they call you "honey" and double-check five times to make sure you don't want bio-gel on your nails even though you've politely declined seven times. The kind of place littered with decaying fashion magazines and scrupulous disinfecting habits, where they twitter about in their native Asian tongue, doing half-ass jobs on a foot massage, but you still love it because it's the most attention your poor feet have received in months.
A calendar hung on the wall with a Vietnamese woman dressed as Miss Saigon. A tacky reminder of home, I thought.
I was soaking my nails in polish remover when I received a phone call I had to take from work. I needed my television host to tape a quick hit and directed him and the camera man on what we needed to do. A few minutes later I received another phone call on my personal cell I had to take. "Tammi" appeared shocked I had two phones. How could anyone be so busy they needed two phones. By that time two Tammi's had joined in.
"What you do for work? Why you need so many phone?" they demanded.
I explained the television news business doesn't stop, especially for a producer, and why it's important to separate business from work, even if it's placebic in its desired effect. By now I was surrounded by three small Vietnamese women curious about the television industry and mistaking me for some kind of hot shot.
In their very broken English, they asked me about the news of the day, what I thought about Obama, Middle East tensions, and pop culture all the while my nails were receiving a top coat. Only half the time did I understand what they were saying, but it felt like we were having some kind of cultural breakthrough and the sins of the past were forgotten on both our parts.
One woman in particular seemed to appreciate how demanding my job could be and then stunned me with a sincere question.
"You think our job hard?" she asked. What she was really asking is if I thought my job was more important than theirs.
My mind raced through a decade of cheap nail salon experiences and the storage shed of quiet judgment I had built.
"Yes. Yes, I do," I replied.
She pushed further. "How?"
"Well, for starters," I said, "you mess with all sorts of nasty feet, hunching your back all day, listening to privileged white women drone on about their white women problems. You have to pretend to care. You have to laugh at their unfunny jokes and smile through their patronizing tones."
At this point I was sure I had lost them. But I hadn't. They laughed in surprise at how much I seemed to understand and I watched their defenses completely melt. We spoke some more about bad news going on in the world. When it was time to pay, they didn't fuss over the fact I used a debit card and they didn't over-charge me.
The oldest Tammi said, "maybe next time you tell us good news."
I immediately started to rummage through my purse, as delicately as I could (my nails were still drying from the polish), for my personal phone. There was a photo from a newspaper I had seen earlier that had melted all my work stress away, albeit briefly, and I wanted to share that photo with them in the hopes that it would set their work world right too.
They waited patiently as I impatiently waited for the wireless signal to download the photograph of a young Afghan girl, awkwardly and proudly holding a lamb in her arms. It was truly a picture of innocence.
The Tammi's crowded together to squint at my phone's small screen. They coo'd over the picture in Vietnamese. Then the oldest Tammi said in English, "she peaceful."
Yes. She peaceful indeed.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Of hearts and homes
Before I forget and not post anything for another few months, I have to describe two very different experiences I had with homeless people in Toronto recently, a city estimated to have up to 10,000 youth and adults living on the streets each night. It's a shocking statistic and while it's a reality here in Canada and sometimes even more severely abroad, I never get used to it. My face often remains stoic walking by those passed out on a subway vent with bare feet exposed, but my heart always, always twinges.
On Saturday night I sat chatting joyfully next to a friend on the subway home. I got to sleep in that day and I got to see a movie that made me laugh, cry and be inspired. Life was simple but perfect in those moments. My reverie ended when I realized the man sitting on the floor of the subway train wasn't sitting there because there weren't any seats available, but because he was so hammered and/or high he couldn't even make it to a seat.
He was friendly though and in the mood to talk to every passenger. I admit I smiled patronizingly at his alcohol-induced loquaciousness, but when he began to say things like, "I have a place to stay tonight if I want to, I just choose not to go home," my heart sank. He wanted to prove to us that he wasn't a bum of circumstances. That he was a man in control of his own life. I openly cried for him. Not out of pity, but out of an understanding heart that knows a little bit what it's like to hang so desperately onto shredding pieces of your pride.
On Sunday night I swooped into a parking spot at my local drug store with my red convertible, still hanging onto its Okie plates. A man stood by the store entrance asking for spare change. I answered honestly that I had no change, and it being night, and me being a single woman, I felt no guilt in not reaching into my purse, although I did say I was sorry I couldn't help.
He replied, "Ma'am, do not feel sorry. It's okay."
I could tell he was sober by the way he spoke to me. His eyes were clear in his polite reprimand. I was struck by his sincerity and almost believed he wouldn't use the money at the liquor store a block away.
As I left, I smiled when I passed him. He must've noticed my Oklahoma plates and my car that doesn't fit into the winter scenes here, because he yelled out laughing, "welcome to Canada!"
He made my night and I can't articulate why.
Welcome to Canada indeed. And to my new residence of Toronto. Where the roof-less are often more friendly than the 3 million covered by roofs.
On Saturday night I sat chatting joyfully next to a friend on the subway home. I got to sleep in that day and I got to see a movie that made me laugh, cry and be inspired. Life was simple but perfect in those moments. My reverie ended when I realized the man sitting on the floor of the subway train wasn't sitting there because there weren't any seats available, but because he was so hammered and/or high he couldn't even make it to a seat.
He was friendly though and in the mood to talk to every passenger. I admit I smiled patronizingly at his alcohol-induced loquaciousness, but when he began to say things like, "I have a place to stay tonight if I want to, I just choose not to go home," my heart sank. He wanted to prove to us that he wasn't a bum of circumstances. That he was a man in control of his own life. I openly cried for him. Not out of pity, but out of an understanding heart that knows a little bit what it's like to hang so desperately onto shredding pieces of your pride.
On Sunday night I swooped into a parking spot at my local drug store with my red convertible, still hanging onto its Okie plates. A man stood by the store entrance asking for spare change. I answered honestly that I had no change, and it being night, and me being a single woman, I felt no guilt in not reaching into my purse, although I did say I was sorry I couldn't help.
He replied, "Ma'am, do not feel sorry. It's okay."
I could tell he was sober by the way he spoke to me. His eyes were clear in his polite reprimand. I was struck by his sincerity and almost believed he wouldn't use the money at the liquor store a block away.
As I left, I smiled when I passed him. He must've noticed my Oklahoma plates and my car that doesn't fit into the winter scenes here, because he yelled out laughing, "welcome to Canada!"
He made my night and I can't articulate why.
Welcome to Canada indeed. And to my new residence of Toronto. Where the roof-less are often more friendly than the 3 million covered by roofs.
Give me liberty or...
This blog is woefully neglected. But better this blog than my life as lots of changes been happenin' over the past few months.
Friends describe me now as a woman liberated, but freedom always comes at a cost as sometimes it seems you trade in one set of chains for another.
I'm still smiling--with an authenticity--and a hope that this new path I'm forging in Canada is not for anyone else but myself.
However, if anyone else finds their life benefiting from my existence in the True North Strong and Free, well then, that's just gravy.
Friends describe me now as a woman liberated, but freedom always comes at a cost as sometimes it seems you trade in one set of chains for another.
I'm still smiling--with an authenticity--and a hope that this new path I'm forging in Canada is not for anyone else but myself.
However, if anyone else finds their life benefiting from my existence in the True North Strong and Free, well then, that's just gravy.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
No man is an island
It seems the isolation in northern reserves is destroying many of Canada's First Nations. The cycle of poverty has nowhere to turn but inside the reservation. The government tap of funds continues to drip with no results to show for it.
This young man walked out of the isolation into his own lonely road, but it may have just been the thing that saved him.
And what a shame that the First has now become the last.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
America the Beautiful
It's been nearly a month since the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The World Trade Center memorial has been unveiled and the poignant speeches have all been spoken. By now, the survivors and families of victims have made the dizzying rounds on the media circuit, and with soundbites and sentiments packaged, the international networks and local news crews have packed up and left. What remains are fizzed out leftovers of American nationalism and the steady wave of NYC tourists curious about the gaping holes in the southern tip of that busy island.
I was tempted to indulge in my own mourning and remembrance of 9/11 in a sappy blog, but I didn't think I could add any more to the pundits already postulating on the significance of that day. I had some stuff to say, but I couldn't justify using 9/11 for a spike in blog readership if tagged properly.
And so 10 years and one month later, the timeliness of the news hook is delayed, but I still remember. And it still hurts. And I still can't figure out why physically being on American soil on the date of the anniversary mattered, but as it turns out, it mattered very much indeed.
I had just flown in for a quick visit home and was tickled happy to be sitting at the table surrounded by all of six of my siblings and their significant others. These moments are rare and I relished it, and my dad's perfectly grilled steak, with sweet satisfaction. When my dad said he had an announcement to make, all eyes moved towards the head of the table. Forks clinked loudly on emptying plates and I think I may have nervously joked, "who's pregnant now?"
Taking advantage of our presence on the eve of 9/11, Dad he said he wanted to take a vote about what to do with the American flag on our family's property. Do we do as the rest of the nation and lower it to half mast in symbolic mourning, or do we leave it up in defiance of proper protocol?
It was unanimous.
In honour of the nearly 3,000 victims, we voted to leave it raised, letting it fly proud and free.
On the morning of September 11th, I attended church with my family. I was restless, and sometimes, tradition brings comfort.
You couldn't deny the heaviness in the air and I wondered how my home pastor would tie in the anniversary of the attacks with a sermon. As much as I believe him to be a sincere man of God, I blanched at the thought of him trying to politicize such a day or manipulate our emotions for the purposes of "the Kingdom." He introduced the worship team for a special song and as they started into the old classic, "America the Beautiful," I started to bristle with my new-found Canadian cynicism.
In the end, my humanity won out and I could help but weep at the 200-year-old hymn, turned patriotic song. Singing in solidarity with my fellow Americans in my parents' church felt right and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Looking down the aisle, I saw ripe tears falling on several of my family members' faces. It was visceral and healing at the same time.
This September 11, 2011, Ground Zero found its way all across America. From the gutted out financial district of Manhattan, to the church pews of Oklahomans, who remember the violence of terror all too well themselves.
When we came to the line in the lyrics, "thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," my voice caught in my throat and I wondered if the writer of that old poem knew how poignant her words would one day become. How prophetic even. Because even through my wet obscurity, America had never looked more beautiful.
The flag on my parents' property at sunset
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tippin' another sacred cow
He's adored, revered, highly sought after, and one day I'm sure he'll be enshrined as Canada's first nationally televised hipster. I even find him quite likeable most days. But today, he's ass-backwards wrong.
I'm talking about Greek media god, George Stroumboulopoulos.
Today on CBC's website, he gave a touching eulogy on the gradual fase out of the classic Cuban car as Cuba has lifted the 50 year old ban on private car sales. Seriously. He's mourning the death of one of the symbols of Cuban communism, when the rest of freedom lovers are celebrating.
Newsflash classic car lovers (myself included) and Mr. Strombo: there is nothing nostalgic about communism. When Castro decides to let people decide for themselves what car they want to drive, we dance in the streets, not romanticize a dictatorship.
Cue the pitchforks as I dodge the angry village people of Strombo Land.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano
He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.
Ancient Bella,
Your cracks reveal stories, not age
Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity
Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past
Mother-duty shoulders in silence
Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time
The mountains raise in buttress support
as salute to your beauty
The burghers hold your secrets,
and the watchtower waits
Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery
journey through medieval maze,
morphing as they pass
Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass
Santo Stefano,
holy ground for the wandering heart,
Your cracks reveal stories, not age
Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity
Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past
Mother-duty shoulders in silence
Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time
The mountains raise in buttress support
as salute to your beauty
The burghers hold your secrets,
and the watchtower waits
Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery
journey through medieval maze,
morphing as they pass
Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass
Santo Stefano,
holy ground for the wandering heart,
you remain an aching memory.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Oklahoma
Wide open spaces, friendly faces. Subtle twangs and simple things. Southern fried, dignified. Lovin' hard, lovin' long. Uncomplicated, syncopated like a good ole country song.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Some sacred cows are meant to be slain
Sun Media recently published my column on "Cuba: A Pretend Paradise." After reading about the regime's most recent form of censorship, conducting a phone interview with someone connected to the underground in Cuba, and getting into a heated exchange with some of my own friends who believe me to be a naive embargoed American on the subject, I felt compelled to write. A certain righteous indignation led me. I felt I owed it to the 600,000 Canadians who travel there every year in blind ignorance that life is sunny on the beaches, and to the Cuban people, whose voice has been silenced.
CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.
I braced for the hate mail for having stepped on thousands of Canadians' toes. But a surprising thing (or not so surprising) happened. The comment section has been flooded with "gracias" from former Cubans who have fled, and some who still remain.
My contact who asked to be left nameless, sent me dozens of links to my article appearing on Cuban news, blogs and websites. It would appear the people of Cuba are grateful for those who can afford the freedom to speak out against status quo in their country.
And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.
Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.
And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.
Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.
This was for you, Cuba.
Below is a small collection of their responses:
Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.
Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.
Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artÃculo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.
En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranÃa por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.
Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos querÃa emigrar.
Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.
Gracias nuevamente
English translation
Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.
In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.
Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.
Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.
Thanks again
Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.
Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.
Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artÃculo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.
En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranÃa por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.
Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos querÃa emigrar.
Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.
Gracias nuevamente
English translation
Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.
In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.
Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.
Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.
Thanks again
CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.
 |
| Courtesy: www.fotoreflection.com |
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Journalism junkies unite
For those friends and family who feel I'm ignoring them or can't understand why I'm not making co-ed ultimate frisbee games, Buck and Does, get togethers for great-grandmothers and other extracurricular fun a priority anymore, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin' contest these days. It's hard to articulate what it takes to produce a one-hour daily talk show for a spankin' new national news network, with the added pressure to daily increase ratings and disprove critics' assertions you don't belong in the rat race that is media, but here's a brilliant snippet from a veteran that knows it very well:
These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.
I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.
I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)
The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.
These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.
I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.
I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)
The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.
So yeah. I'm doing well to take time to pee these days too. Friends and family, gimme your grace along the way. At the end of the day, but mostly on the weekends when I have a second to breathe, I still remember what matters most in life. It's Saturday, my work Blackberry keeps flashing more incoming, but I'm heading out to my deck with a good book on a great summer day.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Top 5 things you should know when takin' the GO
1. The train's departure time is like God, no discriminator of persons.
It does not care how action-movie-like your car's slide into a parking spot was, or how fast you ran in three inch heels whilst whipping a 10-pound wheel bag behind you to the train platform, or how hard you bang on the cruel closing of the doors in your face. It will leave you in its on time departure dust.
2. It is acceptable to finish putting on your face in front of complete strangers.
Making the trek from Hamilton to Toronto forces you to leave your home to catch the train at an ungodly hour, so you're lucky enough to remember to put your underwear and deodorant on at pre-dawn hours, let alone finishing a proper make-up job. While my new position no longer has me in front of the camera these days, I refuse to give into the crazed over-worked producer look. I still like to look put together even if in the process I have a handful of bleary-eyed train travellers looking on with a bizarre mix of curiosity and disdain. Hey! At least I'm not applying mascara at the stop-light in my car. I like to think of those 15 minutes applying makeup as my very own unedited Extreme Makeover show, with the audience sitting in for the before and after look.
3. Your seat is not assigned and you are free to move about the train.
Especially when you find yourself seated in the vicinity of a morning-person with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Pavarotti. My personal favourite is the seat change that comes with sitting across from the socially inept, loud cell phone talker who, wait for it, doesn't mind if the entire world overhears all the gritty details of their relationship woes. Those are the moments when you change coaches completely guilt free, for you have just saved yourself from a potential Primetime What Would You Do? moment.
4. Do not judge the open-mouthed, snoring, drooling train sleeper.
Because sooner or later, that WILL be you. Granted, I've fought the urge to doze off because I don't want to be one of them, but just three weeks into my daily commute, I know my time is coming. And when that time comes, look upon me with sympathy I beg of you.
5. Although air-conditioned, the train is not immune to funky smells.
The most pervasive of them all is the unsettling odor of hundreds of frantic folks running to catch the train in the heat and humidity of summer in Toronto. Lucky for you they make it just in the nick of time and plop down on all sides of you still huffing and emitting their funky fumes. It doesn't get better until a few train stops in. Just carry a scarf dipped in perfume to cover your face to get you through the commute. It'll be less conspicuous than your irritated face and scrunched up nose.
I'm sure the lessons will continue as time and experience allow.
To be continued and feel free to leave your own 'things you should know' for us newbies or those considering the GO train commute.
It does not care how action-movie-like your car's slide into a parking spot was, or how fast you ran in three inch heels whilst whipping a 10-pound wheel bag behind you to the train platform, or how hard you bang on the cruel closing of the doors in your face. It will leave you in its on time departure dust.
2. It is acceptable to finish putting on your face in front of complete strangers.
Making the trek from Hamilton to Toronto forces you to leave your home to catch the train at an ungodly hour, so you're lucky enough to remember to put your underwear and deodorant on at pre-dawn hours, let alone finishing a proper make-up job. While my new position no longer has me in front of the camera these days, I refuse to give into the crazed over-worked producer look. I still like to look put together even if in the process I have a handful of bleary-eyed train travellers looking on with a bizarre mix of curiosity and disdain. Hey! At least I'm not applying mascara at the stop-light in my car. I like to think of those 15 minutes applying makeup as my very own unedited Extreme Makeover show, with the audience sitting in for the before and after look.
3. Your seat is not assigned and you are free to move about the train.
Especially when you find yourself seated in the vicinity of a morning-person with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Pavarotti. My personal favourite is the seat change that comes with sitting across from the socially inept, loud cell phone talker who, wait for it, doesn't mind if the entire world overhears all the gritty details of their relationship woes. Those are the moments when you change coaches completely guilt free, for you have just saved yourself from a potential Primetime What Would You Do? moment.
4. Do not judge the open-mouthed, snoring, drooling train sleeper.
Because sooner or later, that WILL be you. Granted, I've fought the urge to doze off because I don't want to be one of them, but just three weeks into my daily commute, I know my time is coming. And when that time comes, look upon me with sympathy I beg of you.
5. Although air-conditioned, the train is not immune to funky smells.
The most pervasive of them all is the unsettling odor of hundreds of frantic folks running to catch the train in the heat and humidity of summer in Toronto. Lucky for you they make it just in the nick of time and plop down on all sides of you still huffing and emitting their funky fumes. It doesn't get better until a few train stops in. Just carry a scarf dipped in perfume to cover your face to get you through the commute. It'll be less conspicuous than your irritated face and scrunched up nose.
I'm sure the lessons will continue as time and experience allow.
To be continued and feel free to leave your own 'things you should know' for us newbies or those considering the GO train commute.
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| Courtesy GO Transit |
Friday, June 24, 2011
Storyteller
I was going through and removing old web bookmarks from my computer that I don't use or need anymore, and almost removed this lovely image in the process:
I'm glad I didn't. This picture brings me back to who I really am and what I love to do. It gave cause for necessary pause and drew a knowing smile. And on the busiest of days or on the most arduous of climbs to get where I think it is I want to go, may I never forget that underneath it all, I'm just a girl who loves to tell a good story--even if all's I got are a few butterflies listening in.
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| "Storyteller" courtesy www.PamelaMurphyStudio.com |
Sunday, June 19, 2011
A daughter's confession
When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. ~Mark TwainWell I've never been a boy, but I can certainly appreciate the author's sentiment. At 31, I'm astonished at how much I still need my father. I thought I was supposed to be all grown up and stuff by now, but in times of big decision-making or crisis, I look upon the long-distance phone charges with fondness because most of them are "Dad calls."
I have many friends without fathers today and I'm keenly aware that could just as easily be me. I'm sure I would be lost without him and so while I've still got him, I hold him as tightly as I can from my long-distance perch here in Canada.
Today I ranted on Facebook and Twitter about our vapid shout-outs to our dads via social media platforms. I'm sure I insulted a few folks who don't know me well, but my point is this: if your father was good to you, worked his butt off to put a roof over your head, took second place on presents every Christmas and Father's Day, and invested in the person you are today, then I don't believe an updated Facebook status will cut it.
If I could be, I'd be with the rest of my siblings in southwestern Oklahoma today, hiking up the worn-out and modest mountain tops as my dad leads the way to our favourite spots growing up as kids--avoiding wild buffalos, cactus pricks and sunburns, because Mom will ask why we didn't put on sunscreen--all the while celebrating life with him and relishing the view at the top of the climb. We've done it dozens of times and know the trails by heart, but somehow it never gets old.
Dad, all my life you told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and I was naive enough to believe it. I think I'm well on my way to my own mediocre mountain climb, but I'm certain one of my greatest achievements is being cherished by you.
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| Me and dad at the back of Notre Dame in Paris, May 2011 |
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Gimme that old time journalism
I've gone from producing a weekly half-hour newsmagazine to producing a one-hour daily in a matter of a few days with my new hire as senior producer for The Source with Ezra Levant on Sun News Network. It's been a massive learning curve, but a thrill filled with new challenges at every sharp turn.
At the end of my first week, I tweeted that I somehow managed to survive without any major meltdowns. I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I didn't throw a fit. Sure, there were many times I wanted to pass out from sheer exhaustion, or throw up from the fear of failing, but it seems I was born to thrive in this sort of intense deadline-driven environment, and I was quite proud I made it through without a breakdown.
A new colleague and the Senior Associate Editor at The Toronto Sun, replied to my tweet and reassured me that meltdowns aren't a sign of weakness. Rather, from his thread below, you can see a sort of romanticized version of the newsroom tweak-out.
While I'm grateful for the new opportunities provided for women in media (The New York Times recently hired its first female editor), I have a feeling I work in less interesting times when it comes to my field.
What I wouldn't give to have a larger than life, movie-version experience of old-school journalism. The age of No. 2 pencils, typewriters and phonebooks, polyester pants and male chauvinism. Ahhh...
At the end of my first week, I tweeted that I somehow managed to survive without any major meltdowns. I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I didn't throw a fit. Sure, there were many times I wanted to pass out from sheer exhaustion, or throw up from the fear of failing, but it seems I was born to thrive in this sort of intense deadline-driven environment, and I was quite proud I made it through without a breakdown.
A new colleague and the Senior Associate Editor at The Toronto Sun, replied to my tweet and reassured me that meltdowns aren't a sign of weakness. Rather, from his thread below, you can see a sort of romanticized version of the newsroom tweak-out.
While I'm grateful for the new opportunities provided for women in media (The New York Times recently hired its first female editor), I have a feeling I work in less interesting times when it comes to my field.
What I wouldn't give to have a larger than life, movie-version experience of old-school journalism. The age of No. 2 pencils, typewriters and phonebooks, polyester pants and male chauvinism. Ahhh...
@rikkiratliff @sunnewsnetwork Meltdowns are permitted if limited to 5 minutes and any flying objects avoid nearby heads. Always aim low.
@sunlorrieLorrie Goldstein
@rikkiratliff Actually, I missed the "Bono threatens to destroy his crashing computer with a chair" incident of the 1980s.
("Bono" is the senior editorial writer for Sun Media. He's been with them since the 70's and has a gaudy gold ring to prove it.)
("Bono" is the senior editorial writer for Sun Media. He's been with them since the 70's and has a gaudy gold ring to prove it.)
@rikkiratliff But I was there for the famous "Blatchford's flying stapler" episode that kicked off the new millenium.
("Blatchford" is one of Canada's greatest when it comes to print journalism. In fact, I consider her a hero in my field.)
("Blatchford" is one of Canada's greatest when it comes to print journalism. In fact, I consider her a hero in my field.)
@rikkiratliff Then there was the time no one warned me in advance we were endorsing the Grits in the '87 Ontario election. I didn't aim low.
(Americans, the "Grits" are the Liberals in this country. So you can understand the gravity of the situation.)
(Americans, the "Grits" are the Liberals in this country. So you can understand the gravity of the situation.)
@rikkiratliff We had a city editor who jumped on his desk and shouted: "C'MON, YOU BASTARDS, WRITE!" at us. Gave him a whip when he retired.
'Nuff said.
'Nuff said.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I'm a workin' girl
And here's me workin'.
It's a newsreel that demonstrates my experience in reporting, writing, field producing, promo producing, & studio hosting. And...my ability to laugh heartily at the superstition of NFL Hall of Famer, Jim Kelly.
It's a newsreel that demonstrates my experience in reporting, writing, field producing, promo producing, & studio hosting. And...my ability to laugh heartily at the superstition of NFL Hall of Famer, Jim Kelly.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Rescue of the Chilean miners was a mix of technology and a divine miracle, driller says
He will go down in history as “the man with the plan” to find and rescue all 33 of the trapped Chilean miners last August. Greg Hall is the owner of a drilling manufacturing company with offices in Houston, northern Minnesota and Chile. And while he cannot deny he engineered the project that enabled the rescue watched around the world, the humble Catholic who serves as a deacon in his local church insists “it was God who drilled the hole.”
When the collapse of the gold mine in Copiapo happened on Aug. 5, 2010, the Chilean government immediately sent drill rigs that began a guessing game of poke work into the tough terrain. Poor geological mapping and insufficient equipment made the search effort chaotic. They knew the miners were buried somewhere 500 meters and 800 meters below the surface, but the local mineral exploration rigs could only reach as far as 450 meters.
Mr. Hall’s drill manufacturing company, Drillers Supply International, had the tools and the faith needed to find the men. By Day 12, he and his team were certain they were on a body recovery mission. On Day 17, the team heard a banging on his drill pipe, the first sign of life. Attached to his drill pipe, was a muddied note in red ink that read, “Estamos bien en el refugio los 33.” We are all right in the shelter, the 33 of us.
But Mr. Hall’s journey with the miners didn’t end there. The government, unsatisfied with other plans proposed to bring the men to the surface, called Greg’s company again to ask if he had a solution. His plan was called Plan B, the back up plan.
On assignment for Listen Up TV, I sat with the Texas giant — he is 6 feet 6 inches, 300 pounds — to gather the untold story of Plan B and to hear why he believes in the power of prayer, and calls the rescue “a miracle.”
Read more here:
Read more here:
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Retreat
He races towards Risk.
Marching unflinchingly towards the Frontline.
"Ready for action, Sir!"
Reaching Love's Precipice, his boots halt.
"About-face!"
Forward-marching to a battle less costly, where wounds are rewarded and ordinary men become heroes.
rlr
Marching unflinchingly towards the Frontline.
"Ready for action, Sir!"
Reaching Love's Precipice, his boots halt.
"About-face!"
Forward-marching to a battle less costly, where wounds are rewarded and ordinary men become heroes.
rlr
Monday, March 21, 2011
Attention: Writers
I've been there, done that, will never forget it or be the same writer I was before. This is not spam, rather my whole hearted endorsement for a writing adventure that will change your life. From the organizers:
Travelers, Writers, Readers, Adventurers~~
· Imagine yourself high in a mountain burgh in Italy, finally getting time and solitude to get started on your memoirs.· Imagine yourself finding the inspiration to craft travel experiences into literature.
· Imagine making pasta with the local Nona and then narrating every saucy bit for your readers.
· Imagine visiting the very places the great Italian writer Ignazio Silone frequented in Abruzzo.
We have a couple of spots left for adventurous travelers
who want to experience 15th century life for a week while getting the
motivation and stimulation from solid instruction that experienced and new writers need.
Contact us today as the deposit deadline is near: info@italyinotherwords.com.
Italy, In Other Words
Literary Workshops in Abruzzo, Italy
June 12—18, 2011
The Heart of Memoir · Explore and practice first person writing in travel, memoir, food essays · Reflect on moments of change and reconnect to individual purpose in good company with thoughtful and diverse writers | Literary Abruzzo · Explore world-renown Abruzzo-born writer,Ignazio Silone, who witnessed Italy's 20th century social and political struggles · Connect to the challenges and rewards of Abruzzo mountain culture |
Sessanio, endorsements and enrollment information.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Among the Ethiopian ruins, faith and worship
It was a mass of thousands, everyone dressed in holy white. I was one of the many who had gathered in Addis Ababa Stadium for the celebration of Epiphany, one of the most sacred holidays for Orthodox Christians in Ethiopia. The ancient ceremony, commemorating the baptism of Jesus Christ, brought the fourth largest city in Africa to a standstill. I couldn’t help but feel like a gawking heathen, gathering snapshots of a party I wasn’t invited to, but the high priest’s voice over the loud speakers assured me of my welcome.
“Let the ferenji (foreigners) gather close,” he said. “We all serve the same God.”
Children kicked around deflated soccer balls, hustlers created make-shift betting games in the dirt, and youth groups representing various Orthodox churches in the city drummed and danced in anticipation of the priests’ arrival with the Tabot, a replica of the famed Ark of the Covenant, believed to represent the manifestation of Jesus when he came to the Jordan River for baptism.
Gaiety momentarily masked the reality of hardship for many in the booming yet still struggling economy of Addis. Solemnity — as thousands simultaneously bowed and kissed the ground — revealed a reverence for the sacred not often displayed in public life in the West.
Read more here: 
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