We’ll welcome you in our city. We’ll even be seen with you in public (although we may throw in a dig that you’re wearing lifts, but I’m sure that’s some male bonding thing). But then? Then we’ll need to give you a trouncing. That felt good. Now, ready for a nice cappuccino at any one of 12 locations within a stone’s throw? I want to talk about my feelings.
What was the fuss on the Cambie Bridge today? Anyone sitting in their car mid-day today, frustrated that they couldn’t make it to any of the mega stores near the Olympic Village may just want to take a moment to breathe (I love the smell of carbon monoxide in the morning) and learn a little about today’s rally in support of International Day of Climate Action.
Vancouver’s ‘Bridge To A Cool Planet’ event was one of over 5200 rallies that took place internationally today across 181 countries to help raise awareness around climate change. Oh so many websites, twitter supporters, sub-rallies, campaigns and hubs, it can get a little overwhelming. I should know. I’m a bear of very little brain and I found myself retreating for peace in the False Creek inukshuk forest lest someone find me curled up in the fetal position behind Vision Vancouver’s tent (it only happened that one time, and I think Stockwell Day was speaking so give a kid a break).
So, here are my best Coles Notes, special for you. International Day of Climate Action was organized by a group of Smart International Green Keeners (technical term) who launched 350.org, an international campaign dedicated to (more technical terms cut & pasted from finely crafted press release) creating a fair global climate treaty that lowers carbon dioxide below 350 parts per million, the number leading scientists say is the safe upper limit for carbon dioxide, and the number we need to get below asap to avoid runaway climate change.
The primary goal of the 350 movement is to create a new sense of urgency in the global community around climate action, ultimately resulting in the creation of a fair global climate treaty at the 15th UN Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen this December (aka COP15, if you happen to see this floating around the social mediasphere).
So, back to the bridge. There were words, there were banners, there were people in costumes. I was not there because I was busy arguing with the False Creek Ferry guy over his trying to charge me and my friend Bill $28 dollars for two return tickets from the Aquatic Centre when we were already half way to our destination and had been told by the first ferry guy that it was $12 return. 28 BUCKS! I could have taken out a fab Cooperative Auto Network Smart car for the day and still had change left over for offsets to make it a fully carbon-neutral day. Oh little ferry, I smite thee (In fact, I smote thou for the rest of the afternoon much to poor Bill’s chagrin… but I digress).
Instead we went straight to the post-bridge-rally climate change festival at Science World (or Telus World of Science, special for my Telusy peeps).
Too fun, and as usual I’ll let the pics speak for themselves. Folks were encouraged to dress as their favourite endangered species or dinosaur (I looked for Stockwell Day but no luck), and some just took it upon themselves to get creative with what that meant. I like that.
Congrats folks, and thanks to all those that came out on this gorgeous day in Vancouver to show support for such a worthy cause.
Looking for ideas on how you can reduce your carbon emissions? Visit www.climatecrisis.net/takeaction
For More Information:
YouTube:
Message from Mayor Gregor Robertson
COP15 – Raise Your Voice On Climate Change
False Creek Ferry Photo credit: Flickr / Robert In Toronto
The 6th annual Vancouver Celebrates Diwali festival has come to a close. With over a week of fantastic events throughout Vancouver celebrating the exciting and colourful world of South Asian arts & culture, one thing is clear: these folks know how to party!
Diwali (row of lighted lamps) reflects festivals around the world who together celebrate the triumph of light over darkness. In India it often represents the beginning of the New Year, a celebration marked with diyas (clay lamps) rangoli (colourful floor mosaics), feasting, dancing, music. My friend Bill and I headed down to the Roundhouse to check out Diwali Downtown, the biggest event of the festival, and found all of this on full display from the beautiful chalk drawings outside to the music and bustle that drew us in.
Let me start by saying that this was a great space, but it was clear by the way we were squeezed in that the festival may want to find a bigger space next year. The website promised the full experience of a “bustling Punjabi market” but the volunteers looked tired and just a little grumpy navigating and rearranging all the folks who were standing still to watch the events on stage. Unfortunately this meant they were also blocking doorways, vendors, and artists trying to make it to the stage. I felt for them, but not enough to drop my milk cake and leave the party.
There was a little something for everyone from beautiful mehndi henna tattooing, diya painting for kids, dhol drums (not just for melancholics anymore), food, dance, and of course vendors with beautiful silks and jewelry – I was in heaven.
As such, I have decided to give up the life of an only-child and take on a new cultural identity which includes huge families and lots of milk cake. Sorry Mom. I wondered who in the South Asian community I might get to adopt me. Kismet had its way with me when I was very kindly invited by Akash Sablok to his son’s birthday party, which happened to be taking place at the Roundhouse the very same day. You see where I’m going here? What was that? You can’t imagine this not being the perfect opportunity either? Yes, and we really shouldn’t mess with kismet. Wouldn’t that be like allowing darkness to triumph over light? Wait, I think I’m messing with karma now. (“Never mix your spiritual belief systems lest you wind up with no milk cake.” -New Testament)
Considering we are probably the same age, adoption may be awkward, so I’m open to alternatives. His father Tarlok seemed lovely. Akash, look. I promise, I’m like a chia-pet. Just water me once a day and I’m good to go. Well, and maybe a little milk cake. And some jasmine rice with just a touch of butter chicken. And a little chai. And what is that, music? Let’s dance!
Happy Diwali!
For more information, visit: www.vandiwali.ca
Update:
Great News, Akash Sablok has agreed to adopt me as his sister, but I am not allowed to drive his car (I knew I shouldn’t have blogged about my questionable driving habits, never mind shared the story of the construction sign I recently took out with my front passenger door… and the right rear passenger door… and a bit of the right rear quarter panel. Good call, Akash, good call.)
I’m a little late with this post, but the photo popped up and I just couldn’t let it get away.
Davie Street shut down again on September 11th to celebrate the 6th annual Davie Day. Once I came upon this scene I was struck by the excitement of this little girl in her white dress being able to paint with abandon, and a parent letting her go for it. I don’t know who was having more fun, her or me, but I was more than happy to let her and her red cheeks do all the work while I did all the photography.
Beyond adorable little girls covered in paint, what are some of the best things about public festivals?
Sophisticated eyewear
Food for the sophisticated palate
Environmentally friendly transportation
And, of course, what’s a festival without Pocahontas making balloon animals?
Because a key part of ABCD is taking an inventory of the assets in your community, I thought I might start a new series highlighting some of the assets in mine. Granted, I could shout from the rooftops how much I love my community, but I’ll keep it on the down-low (or at least the mid-range) for the sake of avoiding the my-community-is-better-than-yours gloat (which is bound to happen anyway, but I don’t want it to be so obvious).
Today was a good day, filled with all the strange and unexpected happenings that make Vancouver’s West End the place I most wanted to live when that nesting instinct kicked in. After 36 years and at least as many residences, it struck me as an active, diverse, soulful community within an urban setting – not the easiest find.
I’ve now been here three years, paying a scandalous rent to an unconscionable bandit landlord who continues to raise it every year regardless of the economy or the fact that there’s no heat or hot water for weeks at a time or there are sometimes workers walking in to my apartment unannounced or it takes 6 months to get anything repaired.
Why?
Well allow me to assault you with another run-on sentence, it’s just that good: Neighbours that I know, the Celebration of Light and Davie Day, the West Valley Market and the Nelson Street Dog Park and Stepho’s, the community garden with a yarn bombed fence, Pride, did I mention Stepho’s, and the seawall, the beach and Stanley Park and all the beautiful men who are not interested in me in the least – and it’s all steps from my door. Now that’s a community!
The day started well
In the morning I walk my dogs. Today I was stopped by a woman who apparently watches us walk every day from her balcony. She wanted to tell me what good dogs they are. Well thank you, slightly-unusual-neighbour, I appreciate that. On my way home my little pup Sophie (who at 14 is maybe not as much of a pup as I wish she were) got sick, and a guy in the early stages of shooting up gave me napkins to clean her little face, and offered clucks of sympathy for her uncomfortable situation. Well thank you, almost-high guy, I appreciate that too.
The afternoon was one part monty python
As I’m working I hear what I think is the sound of a marauding gang of flamenco dancers walking up Bute Street which, considering the neighbourhood, wouldn’t be unusual in and of itself, but upon closer investigation it turned out to be three female RCMP officers on horseback. Three! They were one Mr. Ed and a hi-ho Silver away from a Musical Ride, for pete’s sake…
But this evening took the cake
My bedroom faces onto the alley which makes for great acoustics that bounce off of the highrises in the immediate area, and it has provided some great concerts over the years. I’ve been treated to opera, blues, the collective yelps of “YES!” and “NOOOO!!” during playoff season, and the homeless guy who likes to serenade with ”If you’ve got the money honey, I’ve got the time”
Tonight, however, I was subjected to the inevitable squawk of some dear soul learning scales on a clarinet. Or, so I thought. Within about 10 minutes it had turned in to a full concert of wind instruments – and they were good!
I took the dogs to investigate.
They had papered Hydro poles, which was thoughtful. Turned out it was part of the Vancouver Concert Band.
…and they played everything from classical to modern jazz to Barry Manilow (oh yes, you heard me…)
And that, my friends, is what I call a good day in the West End.
I hear your freakish screams of agony, friends.
But I won’t have it.
Recently I watched a new show on A&E called Hoarders, and I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I was to see that nothing being pulled out of the homes of these folks was going to a yard sale. Much of it was being turfed into the back of a 1-800-Got-Junk truck (pure marketing brilliance right there, air-five) and it made the garage-saler and sustain-inista in me itchy to think of what could be reused by someone else while bringing in a little bit of extra cash to the (soon-to-be-ex) hoarder.
(shh, hey, come here… I’m not going to lie, there are moments when I know the only reason I’m writing this is because of the delight that comes from emphasizing the word hoarder in all the wrong places. Did I mention that I come from a woefully conservative family? Pity me.)
All I ask for is a little yard sale love. Why? Because you’re not consuming! You’re reducing! And others are reusing! And you get a little cha-ching to take a day trip with the kids! (unless you’re childless and living in an exorbitantly over-priced city, in which case you’ll have a little cha-ching to get a puppy-cut for Muffy and an organic non-fat no-foam half-caf latte for me. What? You totally owe me for this one you big whiner.)
This is Louie. He has hoarding issues.
Dear Car,
It has been less than a year since we’ve been together. I looked at you today, your first ding showing on the dust-covered door, bird poop mapping its way across your roof like a rorschach test, remnants of dog biscuits mashed into the stitching of your seats – and I realized that the honeymoon is over. You are now a member of the family, lovely and comfortable, providing the incredible gift of freedom like nothing else can.
We courted for awhile online before finally meeting in person. When you pulled around, it was love at first great-gas-mileage-compact-with-heated-seats-and-moonroof sight. Those funny dealership guys took a bet that if they offered me a white version of you I’d take it. They lost.
I asked for tinted windows so you would help keep the girls cool and safe. It meant I had to wait for 3 days until we’d be able to take to the open road together Thelma & Louise style. Only, you know, without Louise. When the day came I was sick with excitement. It could’ve been that I was now officially ScotiaBank’s bitch lendee or maybe it was the day-old mushu, but I’d like to think it was because I couldn’t stop thinking of all the adventures we were about to embark upon.
We got you insured, they took our picture, and I almost drove you into the bushes as we left the showroom. It was a good day.
I took you to the mall, because that’s what girls do, and because you needed some serious femming up. A fuzzy black wheel cover with little pink hearts did the trick. Remember when I parked so far away from other cars so you wouldn’t get scratched, that I lost you? It was the perfect opportunity to hear the obnoxious, yet glorious ”BLART BLART” of the panic alarm calling to me from the far corner, causing much jealousy from all the other “cars” (and I use that term losely) in the parkade that night. It was the voice I never had, and I knew then that we were a true match.
We headed home, you purring like a very purry thing, and me bragging to mom on the Fido about how fab we are. That’s right. One hand on wheel. I’m crazy like that. We did the inaugural crawl drive across Lion’s Gate, and our life has never been the same.
Car, you took me and the girls the 1400 kilometers to be with family when we needed them most. You’ve allowed me the freedom and independence that can only come from a zippy little hatchback with attitude. You made sure we got to the vet in time after work to take care of little Sophie and her tummy.
I’m not going to lie. There are days, little car, although not many, when I wonder why we’re together, if it’s really even working out for us. But then Saturday roles around and Kijiji beckons me like an e-siren advertising garage sale treasures that must be seen and what if I miss the perfect garage sale like an estate sale in West Van that sells an Emily Carr because it looks like a charcoal sketch by a 12 year old and hey, they’re just grandkids anyway, what do they know from art, and clearly my very existence depends upon my getting over there to save a national treasure from being tacked onto someone else’s wall or chucked into the garbage all together the horror …and there you are. Sitting in the alley waiting to transport me to coffee, to blow off some of that dust, and let you do what you do best. Drive baby, drive.
Thank you, Car. I know I don’t show you the love often enough. I don’t drive you as much as you’d like, and I don’t keep you as clean as I should. But you’re a ballsy chick with a rocking wheel cover, and you’ve made me cooler and faster. And that, my friend, is no small feat.
Love,
me
Call me judgmental, I don’t mind. But my friends, it has taken me three and a half days to process the affront to my senses that was the presentation by James Arthur Ray at the Westin Bayshore Tuesday night.
I wrote the other day about experimenting with Meetup.com, which in itself was a bit of a bust as I couldn’t find my group (granted, I need a gps to travel 6 blocks in a community I’ve lived in for 3 years, so I may need to take responsibility for that one), but the meetup itself was set to the tune of a poorly veneered, self-aggrandizing promoter of personal abundance (or, as I’ve taken to calling him: the SOS. - I’ll let you sort through that acronym).
I did mention in my previous post about Malcolm Gladwell in relation to connectors. Now let’s talk about thin-slicing. When the SOS walked on stage my reaction was immediate – my skin crawled so hard that if I hadn’t been wearing my size 6 wishful-thinking pants it would’ve wound up in a pile on the floor. Fine for Body World exhibits, but not so classy in a ballroom at the Westin.
Here are just a few of the tasty highlights:
1. Three hyphentated words: Cock-a-hoop. My new favourite phrase. You know, you could tell me that you’ve been on Oprah, and I’m all good. But I’ve never heard someone so profoundly in need of respect and reverence while at once being a totally obnoxious blowhard.
2. Condescension and one-upmanship thrown at those brave enough to speak in front of 500 people (Ian, Iqbal, and “rhymes with yummy” in the yellow dress – I remember all of you because it was the first time in my life that I physically radiated empathy)
3. Power and intimidation tactics used to get people to fill out an order form, credit card info and all, lest you be called out in front of everyone else as ‘fearful’, ‘untrustworthy’, and ‘not committed to improving your life’. Note to self: Insidiousness is not your friend.
Soon after a woman was accused of not being ready to improve her life because she didn’t have a credit card, I stood up in front of a room full of people (front & center – I’m a keener like that) and walked out. I decided that I needed to take my fearful, untrustworthy self home for pudding and a lovely sunset walk on the seawall with my dogs. Oh, and then committed to washing off the veritable stank from my hour with the SOS.
The Legal Fine Print
Proclomation of Questionable Humour: As a Canadian I am culturally obligated to apologise if I offend with this post. I hold no ill will against anyone who thinks this guy is all that and a bag of untrustworthy chips (oh, that’s me again). He used to meditate for three hours a day. He was on Larry King Live. He is the son of a protestant minister. He was a contributor to The Secret. Surely there are some good things about him, and I only wish you, him, and his teeth all things karmically well deserved.
Update:
And by “karmically well deserved”, I did not think this. My heart goes out to the families left behind by this terrible tragedy:
James Arthur Ray’s Spiritual Warrior Event Kills 2, Injures 19 in Sweat Lodge Fiasco
Sweat Lodge Death Turns To Self-Help Guru James Arthur Ray
