Knit, knit, knit.

Last year, my goal was to learn to knit. And yesterday, (January, when this post was originally written) I just finished knitting my first real project, a tiny sweater for tiny humans. I wanted to learn to knit for the same reason I started gardening: 

Making something out of nothing is pretty damn awesome. And making a useful something out of nothing is even awesomer (totally a word).

Knitting is fun. I watched a lot of Youtube videos until the technique made sense to me. I watched more Youtube videos to learn all the little tricks and different stitches. Then I knit. The first thing I made was a baby blanket for friends who were pregnant but didn't know what they were having SPOILER ALERT: they had a baby! A very cute, very sparkly baby! Pretty sure she actually poops unicorns! Here's her blanket:

Oooh, pretty bound off edges

Then other people I knew were having a girl so I made the prettiest, stripiest blanket I could muster:

PS: they also had a cute baby! Weird how that keeps happening. Anyway, I was pretty happy with that but knew I had to step it up and challenge myself. So I made stockings/fingerless gloves/ tea cozies! 

Sorry, sorry, this is my cat. Where were we? Knitting.

I love how tea cozies make tea pots look jaunty

Buttons!! I can attach buttons to things now!

Wait, how did Charlie Hunnam get here? That's weird.

Those projects above were knit while watching 5 seasons of The Good Wife, 2 seasons of Orange is The New Black, 2 seasons of Downton Abbey, and 4 Elijah specific episodes of The Vampire Diaries. It's productive time wasting! Knitting is a great way to pass the time. When mom was in the hospital last year, (she's fine. Mom in the hospital deserves it's own blog. Only mom can make a hospital stay hilarious) I said goodbye to her as at 7:30 in the morning as they wheeled her in for a 7 HOUR SURGERY, not knowing if I was gonna see her again. Pretty heavy stuff. I had a whole day to wonder and worry in Vancouver General but I also had sisters en route for backup. While I waited for the cavalry to arrive, I went for a walk to Granville Island and spoke to some baby ducklings who were very supportive. Then I went back to the hospital to nap. Then I drank 7,000 coffees and tried to distract myself with hot doctors.

And I knit.

I was using knitting as a rosary while I waited. I think I ended up knitting a very ill fitting hat. When mom was finally out of surgery and asking for Coronation Street I knew she'd be fine and I could finally breathe again.

Knitting isn't supposed to be stressful, but I'm hard on myself so when I've screwed up and slipped a stitch and have to start over I look like this:

It's all very dramatic. I blame the pattern directions. And the fact that I'm not very good at reading them. But it's mostly the directions fault and the fact that you're working from the bottom with nothing to the top with something (I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere).

At one point with the tiny sweater, I got so frustrated with it I swore at it and stormed out. "This is what couples fights must be like," I thought.

So here's the tiny sweater. It's not perfect, but much like when you look at yourself in the mirror: only you notice any flaws; you look perfect to everyone else. 

The bottom sweater was my prototype borrowed from a friend

And, as much as I'd like to, I will not be knitting my own dog/cat/boyfriend.

Go Float Yourself

I'm not super duper claustrophobic but I don't like dark caves. I need my bearings. I need to know where the light switch is. 

So when a couple of friends mentioned they 'float' I was surprised to find myself thinking "cool, I'd like to try that!"

Floating is a practice where you enter into an enclosed tub (also called an isolation tank or sensory deprivation tank) which is filled with 10 inches of water and a bunch of Epsom salts. Like 800 lbs of it. It's a practice that's been around forever I guess. Here, I'll let the website explain it:

"The water is heated to the same temperature as the surface of your skin so that when the water settles and you remain relaxed and still, you do not really feel the water anymore. The tank is light-proof and sound-proof and has a neutral smell. All forces of gravity on the musculoskeletal system and nervous system are eliminated from the extreme positive buoyancy; so imagine a space where you don’t feel anything, nor do you see or hear anything. The tank’s extremely unique environment is designed to allow for a minimal amount of sensory input to enter into your nervous system. This environment then has a plethora of benefits and applications for health, personal development, spirituality, and well-being."

I booked an appointment, eager to try this out. Everyone I had talked to said claustrophobia wasn't a problem, but what if I'm like, the one person who spazzes? What if they forget about me in the tank? What if, after 90 minutes, I come out of the tub and the zombie apocalypse has finally happened and I'm stuck in a robe and flip flops smelling like a delicious salty steak to my new zombie friends?

When I arrived at Flouthouse Victoria the man at the front desk told me to take my shoes off which I thought was a bit forward, but hey, man, whatever, dude. 
Then he motioned to the waiting room that consisted of two bean bag chairs which, once one is plopped on, one is unable to gracefully disembark from, FYI.
After a run through of how floats work I was left to my pre float shower and ready for some sensory deprivation. I climbed in, closed the lid, lay down, and turned the light off.

I don't like dark caves. I need my bearings. I need to know where the light switch is. 

I panicked a  bit, slapping the walls to find the light switch that in a matter of seconds had moved a million miles away from me. I took a breath. Felt my heart beating, got settled again, and turned the light back off, focusing on my heart. It was really present, all of a sudden, and I thought that was really cool. And it felt like I was slowly drifting in circles, away from the light switch, and my bearings. And I didn't care. 

The 90 minutes seemed to go by fairly quickly. Or maybe they didn't - I couldn't tell. 
I wondered if the zombie apocalypse had started already. I thought about what I was going to do tomorrow. My stomach growled, which prompted me to think about dinner, which led me to deciding on nachos, followed by me thinking about avocados but to be fair, I think about avocados a lot. (Avocados are a very tumultuous fruit, you see.) 

I wondered if my time was up and if the dude at the front who'd clearly stolen my shoes had forgotten about me. I wondered what happens during an earthquake. 
My toes touched the wall of the tub suddenly which was weird because I'm positive I was just floating through space. I wanted to float forever.

Then the music started and the lights slowly came on and my time was up. And I was really mad about that. I wanted more. I wasn't quite done thinking about avocados yet.
I showered, dressed, and went back into the loud, bright world all Bambi like, plotting my next visit.

And, ya, I got my shoes back. 

Hey Dad?

I cry during a lot of movies. Sometimes it's just some watery eyes, sometimes it's just a feeling of a good cry on the horizon. Sometimes it's a total seat shaking, hyperventilating cry (see The Lion King, The Fox and the Hound, Apollo 13, E.T).
This most recently happened at The Fault In Our Stars screening I attended, and if you know the story, you know.
Now, I blame all this crying on the filmmakers. Because you can't just put a moving scene, with moving words and actions and set it to moving, emotionally peaked music, and not expect me to respond. I am a human being with feelings, of course I'll respond. I respond to beer commercials for goodness sake. That Budweiser Superbowl ad, with the puppy and the horse? I've seen that commercial countless times and I still sob.

BRB, sobbing.

One particular movie that relentlessly sends me into ugly cry mode is Field Of Dreams. It's a movie about being a parent, and having regrets, and maybe not being able to fix all your regrets but you'll try anyway. Also there's some baseball. And a cornfield. Ray Liotta lives in the cornfield, but he's dead. And he lives there with some other dead guys? I don't know. If you think about Field of Dreams too much it doesn't make much sense, you really just have to go with it.
Anyway,  they've just had the 25th anniversary of the movie and they had a gathering at the site the movie was filmed. I think there was a screening of the film, and interviews, and hot dogs. And peanuts and crackerjacks, because baseball.
So there's that scene at the end of the movie, and Kevin Costner's character Ray is talking to his dead dad, who is younger, but whatever, they're working stuff out, like, emotionally or whatever. And Ray goes:

http://youtu.be/EwwCsd_jJq4

And there's the swell of the music, and the sunset, and the Kevin Costner of it all and I turn into a puddle. Every time.
Well, Kevin Costner, during this 25th anniversary, had a catch with his sons. ON THE SAME FIELD.

http://popwatch.ew.com/2014/06/14/kevin-costner-field-of-dreams-playing-catch-video/

So of course I turned into a puddle. Again.

And I know why this movie, or just this one scene, elicits so much emotion out of me. It's because Dad and I played catch all the time when I was little. And it was pretty fun, and I don't want to brag but I was pretty great at it. Except for that time I threw the ball at his new truck, and that other time I let my face catch the ball, like 'hey, let's see how this ends.' Spoiler alert: it ends in blood.
Old Gravel Road  (that was the name of the road I grew up on. I can't make this stuff up)  didn't get a heck of lot of traffic, so Dad and I played uninterrupted for hours, or until the mosquitoes won. Until we couldn't find the ball that went in the gully. Until we'd caught 10 in a row. I don't know if we ever talked or if we just 'had a catch' but sometimes I feel like it was the bright spot in the day. As if that was all we had. Sometimes, maybe it was.
I remember playing catch after stuff had happened and we'd moved to Balsam Way, but the road was busy and we had actual neighbours. I had boys on the brain, and playing catch with your Dad when you're 16 wasn't considered cool, I guess. And that's okay, because catch on Balsam Way wasn't catch on Old Gravel Road. And that's just as it should be.

So, Happy Father's Day Dad. Thanks for all the great catches.

OK, FINE. I'll post the whole scene.

Music

Every now and then there's a moment in your life that happens that you just know you'll remember forever. Some moments are awful/embarrassing (how many times can I wear my gym shorts inside out. For serious.) Some moments, the good ones, are magic. Like the time a few summers ago at a music fest when someone played Springsteen's 'I'm on Fire' on a BANJO. I have strong feelings about the BANJO and the people who play that particular instrument. And this moment, coupled with the sun setting and the beer buzz, and all the shiny, happy people, was a moment I knew I'd look back on forever and ever.

Today I stumbled upon The O'Brien family at the Moss Street Market. It's a market 2 blocks from my house, a farmer's market I visit all the time. I expect nothing remarkable to come from these visits, unless we're talking about pie, because pie is always remarkable, especially during fall. 

When I arrived, the band was singing Coldplay's 'Yellow', which is always a good song in my opinion. It's why Coldplay is famous, basically. Now I don't know if it was a combination of the warm sunshine on a crisp October day (I'm thinking about pie again), or the acoustics, but I abandoned all my other plans and sat down to listen. Which is about the time the band announced they were only singing one more song. Alas. I jumped up to talk to the singer, whose name is Fintan, a boy who looks like a better behaved Justin Bieber during his swoopy haircut phase. Unlike Bieber, Fintan was wearing properly fitted pants. I asked him what instrument he was playing (an electric bass. Fancy!), grabbed a card as they were out of CD's and thanked them for being awesome because I find it's always nice when someone tells you you're awesome.

Fintan is on iTunes here. Paul plays in Victoria a bunch and here's the band playing at Butchart Gardens in September. So glad I stumbed upon them today!

Take a moment

Just outside the doors of the Great Victoria Public Library there is an atrium. There are a lot of Ministry office entrances there and it serves as a shortcut (to me at least) home and for some it's just a quiet covered place to eat lunch. Most times there are buskers performing there, for money, for practice or, for both. The acoustics in there are ALWAYS incredible.
Today as I was walking home from work and the gym I was plotting my way home- it was raining and I was trying to decide if I absolutely had to do anything or pick anything up at the grocery store before I was home for the rest of the day. I found myself across the street from the library and noticed a choir in the atrium. I assumed they were singing carols. I thought about ignoring them and rushing home. I thought, 'how nice, a choir. Moving on. What's for dinner? Do I need to pick up bread?' I also thought, 'no I'm across the street and there's so much traffic and I kind of have to pee.'

I'm really glad I decided to cross the street.

It was the Esquimalt High School choir and there were about 25 kids. They were singing songs I didn't recognize. I started crying. Because I cry at beautiful things and beautiful moments and their voices were so beyond what it looked like would come out of them that I was just...stunned.

I stayed for 4 songs. The teacher joked in between each song and you could tell the kids were sort of embarrassed but also secretly proud that people were watching them. There was both boys and girls, bundled up from the cold, wearing scarves and gloves and Santa hats, scuffed chuck taylors, or uggs, or leather boots. Long hair, short hair, make up, no make up. The news tells you about all the bullying and on line torment and suicide for bullied kids but for those 4 songs all that went away. These people were just singing in a high school choir.
I mean, sure maybe some of them wanted to check their text messages or update their instafacebookogram or something but for now they were there, truly in a moment and it was lovely.

I watched the people that had stopped to listen. And the people that didn't. One girl continued discussing, in depth, loudly, her tuna sandwich to her colleague as she strutted past. A homeless dude with a dog and a shopping cart strolled through, bemused. People came back from their lunch with take out boxes and quietly stepped though the crowd to get back to work.
But a lot of people stopped. I think people were really appreciative to just have a moment. A moment where the outside noise stopped and all there was was this atrium and the kid's incredible voices. (And my phone. Which chose to ring at this particular moment of all moments. I turned it off)
A mom with her kids paused to listen and her little boy said 'mommy, this is cool'. (Spoiler alert, I cried again)

Moral of the story:  take a moment. Pause. Especially at this time of year. Life can be brutal and harsh and just like, windy, but it can also be really really calm and beautiful and surprising.

If you let it.

On Spiders

When I first thought of the brilliant idea to write about spiders, I got this far:

They need to stop what they are doing and die. The end.

It's my express opinion that spiders should be no bigger than that little square on your home button on your iPhone. They are too unpredictable, have too many legs, and the bigger they get the hairier they are and they seem really smart and build better webs than I do. And really quickly too, because I've knocked down this one spider's web just outside my front door every day for the past month and that little bitch is back up again the very next day with a different and more impressive web.
Side note: All spiders are shes, just as all boats are shes and all frogs are hes (not sure about that last one but the other two are totally true.)

It seems like this year there are more spiders than ever. And more and more people are posting how to/fix it ideas on how to get rid of spiders. There's that remedy I read about that says something about mixing pepper and vinegar and spraying it along your window sill. But, having more than a bit of ADD, all that made me want was a spicy Caesar and some fish and chips. So I called up my sisters to meet me at the pub- because everyone  has got a spider story, and it's less sucky to know you're not suffering alone. Plus, Caesars are delicious. 

There's the horse chestnut theory: that there is a smell or something from the chestnut that deters the beasts so people collect them and put them in spots where they generally see spiders, and again, generally, people have had success and lived spider free lives. Or so far as they know- there's that other theory that everyone swallows a certain amount of spiders in their sleep or whatever, and that other thing that claims we are no more than 3 feet from a spider at any given time.

Sleep tight.

When I grow up...

When you were little, did you know what you wanted to be when you grew up? I knew what I wanted to be - a cat. This was seriously my answer when I was little. I was riding the Green Chair lift on Whistler Mountain, a man sitting beside me was trying to be charming and talk to the shy little girl beside him and he asked me "so what do you want to be when you grow up?" and I replied confidently with "A cat!" which was obviously a viable option to me cause I was five. And the man, THE MAN, had the audacity to say to me "oh that's silly, you can't be a cat."

It took everything in me not to throw that man off the chair. 

It was then I decided I didn't particularly want to talk to this man anymore, or any other adults really, because if they were going to tell me what I couldn't be then I didn't really want any part of them. So I thwarted his efforts to speak to me for the rest of the ride. 

I wasn't raised in a particularly structured household, so there wasn't any 'this is this, and that is that' and we were sort of given free reign over what we were doing with ourselves. As long as we weren't shooting heroin into our eyeballs, I think my parents were happy and let us be. 

So now I'm 31-ish and I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up and pretty much everyone I know is married with children, a career, a mortgage. Am I jealous of them? I don't know. It's hard to say. Are they jealous of me? With all the free time and no stress, nary a poopy diaper or house payment to deal with? I don't know. Wait, did I mention I get naps? They are definitely jealous.

I have some friends who have known since they were little exactly how their life plan would pan out. A boyfriend who would become a husband who would become a father to two kids aged 2 yrs apart, a house, car, job etc etc. All before they are 30.  And, while I'm impressed by that... let's call it tenacity, I can't help but wonder if they've missed out on any opportunities that they ignored because it wasn't on the list and it could have been seen as a possible derailment. Where's the sense of whimsy, of wonder? But wait, who am I to poo poo (teehee) on people's dreams?  

Am I living in the moment? Yes. Am I thinking about my future? Yes. Am I taking any steps toward this? Slowly. At my own pace. Which is slow like a turtle cause I am remarkably unmotivated at times. Some might call this Peter Pan syndrome - running around all day every day, no worries or concerns, having a laugh, and in the risk of sounding like Oprah, just being. Which is OK too. 

I can't possibly know what I'm doing tomorrow, let alone a year from now, or a lifetime from now. I also find the word 'duties' hilarious and will talk about bodily functions all the live long day with anyone who will listen, mostly because I'm pretty sure my inner child is a 12 yr old boy and also because it's disgusting and fascinating at the same time and anything that is both those things will have my undivided attention, until a new [insert adorable animal here] video gets posted to YouTube and then I will share that with you as well. 

So even if I find out what I want to be, I guess I'll never truly grow up. 

And I guess I hope I never do. 

Rocky

It was late spring. Or summer. I don't know. I know it was definitely early evening and my two sisters and I and our Dad were walking along the railroad tracks on our way home from an early evening walk. We literally lived on the wrong side of the tracks in Whistler.
Anyway, one of us looked behind us and noticed we were being followed.

It was a raccoon. He was teeny tiny. And he was alone.

We'd been warned about raccoons (and bears and cougars. They were regulars in our backyards growing up. It's why we had a lot of cats go missing) so Dad told us to go on ahead and he would scare it away.
My sisters and I plodded up the path to home and I'm not sure how long it was before Dad came through the door and we all ran up to him to ask him what happened.
What happened was that Dad had the raccoon in his arms. He'd brought the little thing home.

Naturally we were all very curious and pokey. Turns out the little dude was blind and possibly abandoned because of it?  Dad set up a little spot for him outside if he wanted to leave overnight. But come morning little Rocky, as we came to know him, was still in his makeshift home. It looked like we had ourselves a new pet!

None of us remember much more than this, honestly. We don't even have a picture of him to prove this happened. I don't know what Buffy the dog thought of Rocky, or what Mom thought of him, or what we fed him, but what I do know for sure is how Rocky felt about Dad. Rocky fell in love with Dad. He liked his scratchy beard so much he'd perch on Dads shoulder and just rub his little snout in it. He peed on Dad a bunch while doing this which we all thought was hilarious. I'm pretty sure Dad was smitten with Rocky too. This was a bromance in the making.

 I doubt we were allowed to hold Rocky or anything. On account of the rabies. But he was pretty darn cute nonetheless. He stayed with us for that late spring or summer, again no one is quite sure how long he was with us, until one day my sisters and I woke up and Rocky was gone. Dad told us he'd gone to the raccoon farm.

Right.

It was only just a couple years ago Ashley realized there wasn't an actual raccoon farm. We told her what we thought we knew happened- we assumed Dad had...dealt with it. We didn't think any less of him for it or anything, we just accepted it and moved on.
I just talked to my father, to try and nail down some details, and he maintains to this day, there wasn't an actual 'raccoon farm' where raccoons frolic and scavenge merrily through well placed garbage cans, but that it was someone named Eugene Rickle and he had a wildlife preservation something or other in the Interior of BC and that's where Rocky went.
Well, if I've googled correctly, and that's the farm, the website has a photo of a cougar on the front, so RIP Rocky, RIP indeed.
We don't remember much about you, but we know you were there. And you peed a bunch.

Not Rocky, but a dude who scampers through my backyard every day at 3pm. VERY punctual.

By now you know who Joseph Kony is.
I don't need to tell you.
I'm ecstatic the video went viral so quickly, frankly I shouldn't have been surprised.
And now the backlash.

Of course Invisible Children, the company behind Kony2012.com isn't perfect. But at least they aren't standing by ignorantly and letting passivity take over. They are TRYING to do SOMETHING.
People focused on the negative aspects bug me. All the negative feedback may be true, but people are talking. Isn't that enough? 13 million views on YouTube, they've done something right.  Even if only 1 million people actually DO something out of that 13 million....that's something.
It's impressive to watch on Facebook and Twitter...to watch the message spread, just by people sharing. I mean, isn't that we all learn in kindergarten? How to share?
And if you watched Kony 2012 and you watched Jacob break down, and still felt nothing but negativity, then you are cold and dead inside. Jacob would rather DIE to be with his brother again, rather than live through that hell. That's how bad it is. Multiply that by thousands and thousands. The point I'm making is...I don't know, really. I'm just thinking out loud.

 It's good to be informed. It's good to want to know both sides of the story. But don't let that stop you from trying to do good, from trying to BE good.
I hope that in 3 months, people are still talking about this. I hope Kony does make it on the cover of the magazines, and that he's not just the soup of the day.

I hope he and his fellow bad guys are stopped.

The Nutcracker

As a kid, Christmas is kind of a big deal. It's a time where you do things the exact same way you did them the year previously, because that's tradition, and tradition brings back good memories. Or, as in the case of bad memories, laughter that comes much, much later.

One of my all time favorite Christmas time memory is the time my Grandma took the granddaughters to the ballet. She had organized a special night for us girls to watch The Nutcracker in Vancouver.

side note: Grandma will be known as 'Grams' from now on, cause Grandma and Grandpa get cool nicknames that make no sense but everyone calls them that anyway.

The granddaughters at this point in life consisted of my two sisters Ashley and Shannon and our cousin Kate. Kate lived in Nanaimo, and if you've read previous posts you know by now I lived in Whistler, and Gram lived in Osoyoos but somehow our family had arranged it so we met in Vancouver for a special evening.
Actually we probably met in Horseshoe Bay at the designated meet up point and Gram probably suffered through Vancouver traffic to get us to the hotel safely while the four of us jibber jabbered in the back seats.
The hotel!! We stayed in a hotel! This didn't happen a lot and I believe this began my infatuation with nice hotel rooms, ones with pretty views and nice bedspreads, and free stationary and random extra chairs situated throughout the room.
I don't remember the hotel we stayed in but I remember a part of the view was the Woodwards W rotating on top of a building and been kind of mesmerized by that and wondering why someone would put a W on top of a building and not another letter.

So we're staying in the city, it's Christmas time, and when you're little,everything seems huge. So a big sparkly city with sparkly decorations...my mind was blown.
I remember walking by The Hudson's Bay store with the big windows decorated with tinsel, and white fluff and fake snow and colors and lights and shapes of all sizes and Christmas music, and giant department stores and lots of people. Gift wrapped presents under giant shiny trees, nice store people giving out candy, people lined up for photos with Santa. It was as if we were in a movie. Oh it was just so great to clamor from window to window, never knowing what the next one would look like, but being amazed by each one all the same and pointing out our favorite parts. I don't remember letting go of Gram's hand but I'm sure we gave her a start with the four of us wandering off in separate directions all the time.

That night we got ready in the hotel room for the ballet. We might have ordered room service, I may have made that up. We got to wear pretty dresses, at this point I think we all believed we were princesses and our carriage was waiting to take us to the ball.
The Nutcracker ballet was amazing. I think. I might have fallen asleep at some point, it had been a very long day and as all girls know playing princess can be very tiring. I remember not really understanding the story so much, I mean there were mice, and mouse kings, and did they eat the gingerbread men? And I thought nutcrackers cracked nuts, what do they have to do with sugarplums and giant men dressed as creepy wolves, but the music was pretty and the ballerinas were lovely.
After the ballet Gram probably scooped us all up and poured us into bed... it was like that scene out of 'Annie' when she goes to the movies and Daddy Warbucks tucks her into bed after a magical evening. And this time every year when I see an ad for The Nutcracker or hear the music there's a part of me that gets transported back to the ballet and the pretty dresses and the time our Grams took us to the big city and ballet. After all, Christmas time is a time for nostalgia, family, and memories. And bright sparkly lights :)

What you need to know

My wrapping is not a reflection on how I feel about you. I love you very much, it just doesn't come across in the way I wrap presents. Each year, every Christmas, every birthday I think I've reached a new low in my abilities until the next time I'm surrounded by discarded and unusable wrapping paper. My sister Ashley loves wrapping presents, she loves the bows and ribbons of it all, she does such a good job all the time, it must drive her nuts how badly I do it. I don't even bother with bows and when people make the pretty ribbon go all curly I stand slack jawed in awe. I usually start off nicely, but then I get bored real quick and the nog needs to be tended to. I put a lot of thought into the present itself, not a heck of a lot into the wrapping.

 Here's how it goes with the first present
 1) Neatly cut paper.
2) Measure precisely.
3) Carefully tuck and fold ends flat.
4) Never use more than 5 strips of tape. Stand in awe of your beautiful work.

Next present

1) Cut paper. Doesn't matter if parts tear or if it's even, those bits get hidden anyways right?
2)  Basically smoosh all the end paper bits down in to a ball. Use both hands.
3) straddle present between legs.
4) hold scissors in mouth.
5) use both hands to get a strip of tape long enough to wrap around both ends.
6) Spit out scissors.
Stand in awe at the horror you have created.
Repeat until wrapping is done or you run out of paper, or can't find the scissors cause you wrapped em by accident.
That's how it's done. And remember, I love you.

My attempt at a food blog I guess??

I like cooking. I don't know if I love it- no okay I do, I love cooking. There. I said it.
I love cooking, I really love baking, and I really extra love eating the food that I have made. I haven't yet had a cooking disaster happen to me luckily. I assume if I am cooking for myself and it doesn't work out I'd just order pizza. And if I was cooking for others and it didn't work out we'd order pizza! And if the people I'm cooking for aren't okay with that then I'm not okay with them and they can go hunt and gather for themselves.
The great thing about cooking is that you feel like you are doing something good for yourself. Even if it's a seven cheese macaroni, at least you made it, and you had a hand in what was put in. I'm generally pretty lenient with recipes as well, most of the time I don't use them. I just buy ingredients I think would go well together and I put em in a pot. This summer I had a pretty great little garden turnout so I made a roasted carrot and brie soup with the carrots I'd grown, and it was okay, not great or mind blowing but OK.  I am a huge fan of pasta so the tomatoes I'd grown were roasted in this dish I sort of kind of made up and also stole/borrowed parts of from step mom Diane (thanks!) Here goes:
Roast cherry tomatoes, garlic, red peppers.
Caramelize onions, add some sun dried tomatoes, and artichoke hearts, maybe mushrooms if you feel like it?
Sprinkle of chili flakes
Boil water, add any kind of pasta you like till it's done how you like it.
Mix that all in the pot (do I need to tell you to drain the pasta water? Please tell me I don't ) Toss everything together
Grab a plate, pile it with pasta, dump/sprinkle some Parmesan on it and you're done! Don't forget the wine.

Sleeping in is not an option.



click on picture for life size replica of the Snooze Button 3000

Introducing the Snooze Button 3000! So life like, because it is!!! No more annoying battery operated alarm clocks/radios!!!!

The Brody Line of the Snooze Button 3000 quietly lets you know when it's time to get up. And when I mean quietly, I mean repeatedly. And when I say get up, I mean he's ready to be fed.
The Snooze Button 3000 will first awake you by knocking important shit off your nightstand. This could include your glasses, your iPhone, and even a full glass of water!! Simply push the SB3000 away and dip back into a semi- slumber for approximately 9 minutes. After that time, you'll feel the SB3000 give you a gentle, yet jolting tap,tap,tap against your right nostril. Certain SB's come with a extended sharp claw that has the possibility of piercing your nose. This may result in eye watering. If you so desire to sleep a little longer, firmly shove the 3000 off the bed and unintelligibly mumble. Doggedly pursue another 8 minutes of sleep.

Other features of the Son of a Bitch 3000 include more persistent levels of the face-paw, along with  stepping on your eyeball, knocking more shit off shelves, playing a loud, solitary game of plug hockey in the bathtub, stepping on your full bladder in juuusssttt the right spot, as well as aggressive meowing, cold wet nose kisses against your eyelids, scratching of furniture/ your bare arms and general cat a-holeness.

The Snooze Button 3000!!! You'll never be late for work again!

*don't forget to feed the cat on the way out. Otherwise you may not be let back in.

Dear diary, or The perils of journaling.

I was aware of them. I knew they were there. Every time I walked by my closet I'd cast a wayward eye towards the box. Like a boogie man hiding in there, a boogie man who knew all my dirty little secrets.

My journals. Back in the day of the teenager I kept journals/diaries/memory keepers whatever you call them religiously. Every day I would write down very important things that happened that particular day.

Things that clearly needed to be written down, to be preserved in a diary for all of time.
 Things such as:
-sometime in 1998: Saw Aidan. We're so perfect for each other obviously. But I just don't know.(30 yr old me thinks "who the hell is Aidan??")
-Met Shannon for coffee at Second Cup. Sat in hand chairs. It was raining. (Also, not written, but I know I had a latte.)
-Had too many blueberry teas Keg size at Brandy's Drunk as fuck. Ashley and I picked up more booze. Man were we wasted. Stopped in at Moe Joe's and we didn't have to pay for anything. Puked all day today. (all very messy writing)

Speaking of messy writing, holy crap, I clearly was not about to win any penmanship awards. All the way through reading these I'm squinting and holding paper up to the light to see if I can get a better look at the words that I wrote that were oh so important back then. Does that say "been or bees? Or even bins? If it's bees, what happened, why'd I need to write about them? Was I stung by one and some hot guy saved me??? A lot of entries are about a boy passing through the course of my day and something insignificant happened and I was clearly compelled to write about it. Some I still think about to this day without having to read the books: From New Years 1998: Ran into Phil- he grabbed my hand through the crowd and kissed it and then gave me a huge hug. Best thing ever. (I stand by this statement)
Other things were less so:  From 2002: Shane came in to the cafe today. He bought a turkey sandwich.
Seriously. I felt like I needed to write down every detail. I was so obsessed with memories. Which is why I have 12 journals spanning over a decade interspersed with pictures of Leonardo Dicaprio, Brad Pitt, Ilia Kulik(figure skater) Tobey Maguire (totally still relevant)  Johnny Depp and oh ya, more DiCaprio pictures.
Some entries are darker than others, some trail off midway through, most of the books aren't completed as I'd have been given a new one for birthday/Christmas/Tuesday that I would start. Some have some incredibly deep thoughts and poems that make me wonder how a 16 yr old can have a thought that deep and profound and whether or not that still happens or if people just use Twitter as their journals, except instead of taping a picture of Leo they just tweet Bieber directly. Is Facebook the new diary? Yes I think so, in some ways. Some of my journals are interspersed with grocery lists, future names of kids lists, days worked, CDs owned, needs/wants lists. Some are just: 2am. BESTTIMEEVEROMGICANTBELIEVETHATHAPPENED.
Omg. what happened??? says 2011 me. Who was I with? Is there photographic evidence of this occurrence???? Which leads to a thorough digging out of old photo albums and attempting to find said night. Luckily flipping through an album is much more enjoyable and hilarious which is why I got distracted writing this blog. Because for the number of journals I have, I pretty much have a matching set of albums.Which is kind of  awesome. It's not as bad as the next generation will be with the plethora of digital photos and the facebookyness of it all but my photos are pretty great. It makes me glad I have the journals, and the photos to remind me of people and stories I've forgotten, people that aren't here anymore, people I'm still in touch with but need to make more of an effort with, and stories that were important to the younger version of Dawn and who she was. It certainly puts things in perspective. Me tripping in front of some dude in 2002 would convinced me the world might as well end. 9 years later I have a more 'keep calm and carry on' attitude and a better sense of humor. If I tripped now I'd want a video of it so I could laugh at myself.
Because let's be honest. That would be pretty funny.

On Camping.

There seems to have been more of an urge to camp this year more than previous years. I'm not sure why I got an overwhelming sense to squat (in all senses of the word) in the woods but so far I've successfully managed two separate camp outings and may have a third on the horizon.

As a child, 'going camping' in our family meant Dad running around the night before packing the car, Mom staying out of the way until needed, and us kids standing around wondering why camping equaled building character and why Dad was talking to himself about packing the orange cooler juuusst so. It also meant getting up VERY early; early enough for Mom to mutter "7am is too fucking early to start building character".
Imagine, if you will, a blue Dodge Aries, mid '80's. Previously mentioned in a blog : The Giant Yellow Canoe tied on top of the car. Bikes strapped to the back, 3 kids stuffed in the back seat, a dog called Buffy somewhere amongst the orange cooler, the big old green tent from the Army (which had approximately 317 separate poles) and all manner of other shit necessary to feed and entertain five people for a number of days. Dad would drive all day (All Day.) to find the perfect spot, near a lake that I'm supposed to remember the name of, and we'd set up the tent and have just a splendid time I'm sure, if I actually remembered any of it. The fact that the car ride remains seared into my memory concerns me.

Camping with my sister last month was much simpler except for the fact we couldn't find any marshmallows that weren't a giant family sized bag or coconut/strawberry flavored. By the time we had driven all over Sechelt and settled for a bag of mini ones, and gotten back to the site we were so stressed and fed up that we fixed ourselves a gin and tonic ASAP. Which makes me wonder how our parents did it at all. Or why. Why would they put themselves thru the stress of packing, driving, setting up with children who have to stop and pee slash throw-up every two seconds, or demand that we stop the car immediately and proceed no further until we dig the red blanket with elephants on it from the bottom of the back of the piled high car thankyouverymuch. (All me. I was a really pleasant child, I swear)

Camping as a grown up is in fact much more pleasant- as long as you have nice neighbours. If you happen to get a site next to yours (such as Site 34, our neighbours in Port Renfrew last week) that contains some obnoxious people who are genuinely bad eggs who are loud and stupid on purpose it won't ruin your weekend, but it will give you a topic of conversation. You will immediately appreciate how nice you are, and your friends will appear extra lovely and helpful compared to these folks. And you'll have a comparison for the following years when you meet more people like this:
"Man, that person was really obnoxious."
"Site 34 obnoxious or less so? Did he play rave music till 3am? Have a rap battle with his friends? Pee on or near your tent? Get up at 6am and complain loudly about how cold it is on the ocean without a sweater?"
People like this need to not go camping near me. I want to listen to the sound of the ocean in the morning, not Troubled Tommy whining loudly about how hard his life is. I'd rather listen to Chippy the chipmunk or the friggin crows cawing than that. We did have a pretty great time, even if our neighbours threatened to start a forest fire.

I guess in the end I'm glad I had all those lovely camping experiences as a child because I've learned what to do and how not to act.

Back to camping with small children-the other thing you have to worry about is the dangers. The very real dangers of your child a) screaming incessantly b) refusing to have any fun whatsoever c) getting up to pee in the middle of the night and getting lost and wandering through the campsite screaming "MOM??? DAD????? MOMMMY??? I CAN'T FIIINND YOU."

Once again. All me. Good thing I've learned how to camp properly and built all that character.

Aforementioned green tent, but with Vdub van that preceded the Dodge.

A Game, A Riot, A Death, A Birth

I want to believe we're better than that.
I want to assume we know better. That we've learned, that we've watched in reruns what happened in '94 and thought ' we've come farther.'

It's not true.
My team lost. The better team won, I'll admit that, that Tim Thomas was a wall, that the 30 odd average shots per game we did get on net did not go in, the ones that did go in were all kind of empty netters....as exhilarating as they were, we beat Thomas just 8 times.
I'll admit all of that, just as I'll admit 'there is always next year.'
Ya but...
We had this year!!! This year was awesome!! President's Trophy, Jennings Trophy, First in the league, Stanley Cup Finals (holyshit) etc etc! SO AWESOME!
But we were one game short. We needed to win 4 games and we won 3. And that's okay, someone had to lose and I can say that and watch Chara toss Stanley around like a piece of tin foil and I'm kind of happy for the Canadians on the team that won and I can watch their stupid parade and feel sick inside. Some say ' it's just hockey' - well it is to some but to others it's the difference between a good day and a bad day, and it's your every topic of conversation, thought, dreams. When your team wins, it's the greatest feeling in the world. When it loses, you think 'we'll get em next time'

There is no next time in  Game 7 Stanley Cup Final. I've never known such agony and stomach churning nervousness before last Wednesday ( I did watch in '94- but I was 14, I had other teenage-parent's divorcing- related issues)

But as an invested Canucks fan-this year, when my team lost, I cried. I drank some tequila with my sister and then walked home and watched history rear it's ugly head on national television. At some points I couldn't distinguish if they were showing live footage, or 1994 tape. The only thing that distinguished them were the blue and white jerseys.
And there was a lot of them and that's what upsets me the most. I think in '94 the colors of the Canucks were still black and orange, so it blended in a bit more than the blue, white and green of today. Today's jerseys stand out a lot better, for the worse. Seeing thousands of Kesler/Burrows/Sedin/Bieksa jerseys turn over cars and light shit on fire reflects badly on the Canucks fans wearing the same jerseys and not rioting.
I want to believe the police chief who said they were anarchists and thugs. I want to believe that the people in Canucks jerseys weren't true fans. The only thing I could think of when they showed people jumping on top of cars and hollering? You know those apes that thump their chest and howl when they accomplish ape stuff? Ya, that's what happened in Vancouver Wednesday night- it was either a zombie apocalypse or monkeys thumping their chest. So shameful, so disgusting, so disgraceful.

Not so to the people who took their time and money to go downtown the next morning and help clean up- kudos to you, thanks to whomever organized that. AMAZING!!! Those people should be given the order of Canada or a free parking sticker or something- such ownership and love and respect for their fellow citizens, and their cops (who did everything they could without actually drawing their guns-so eff you to whoever says they could have done more)
It took one person to light something on fire, knock some newstand over, or throw bottles at a giant screen, before everyone else got involved. It's the mob mentality.
That same mentality can be attributed to the clean up efforts the next day. It took one person to say " Hey, this is not my Vancouver" and others to agree and follow. And that's how Vancouver got cleaned up yesterday, alongside city workers and shop owners, people did their part .It took one person to write a message on a piece of plywood saying ' I'm sorry'  and hundreds followed.
It took one person to do that a couple of years ago- Terry Fox. He said he couldn't stand watching kids in the cancer unit die of a curable disease and he vowed to help. And he did. His parent's started a charity in his name and it's raised millions of dollars- around the world.
Betty Fox, mother of Terry, died today.
Betty Fox was....Terry. And vice versa.I think we all know what that means. There isn't much more I can say about that woman that we haven't seen in footage of Terry running, suffering,waving and smiling across Canada and haven't seen in Rollie and Terry's siblings as they help to spread Terry's marathon of hope across the country, the world.
Today was also the day my ex roomie had a baby- a bunch of labour hours later and a text from the new Dad ("Holy Crap! What an adventure!") and the circle is complete.

And that's all you need to know. It's smiles from here on in, cause life goes on, hockey games are played, riots are cleaned up and the true nature of people are shown, good or bad. Let's make sure the good outshines the bad- it's more fun that way.

Order in the court

A couple of weeks ago I got a mysterious letter in the mail. Upon opening it read 'Dear Prospective Juror'...

Boo hiss.

I immediately thought this was a bad thing. Everyone I told however, was jealous. I couldn't think of why, and I asked everyone how I could get out of it. Alison told me to become a lawyer and I would be immediately excused. Well, okay, but that seems a little excessive. Another told me to book a flight somewhere and I wouldn't have to partake in anything. 'Hmm, well that sounds like two-birds-one-stone-productive, maybe'  Melody was jealous and thought it would be cool, Mom said 'walk in there and yell 'He's guilty!' and 'Act crazy!' Shannon said 'do it, the bad guy will be hot. They're always hot' Patti mentioned asking my employer to 'write a letter explaining how you are absolutely essential to the business and he can't get by without you' (I did this. I'm still waiting for a letter.)

My biggest problem with this is that I am to a fault, so so so very curious. I wanted to know what the case was for, who was picked, what the judges said. Whose fence was 3 feet over which neighbours land??
So I told the boss I'd be gone for the morning, get out of it, and be back at work tra la la.
Note to self: If ever you are chosen for jury selection, bring a sandwich and a book. Better yet, bring chips and guacamole for all 300 of your new friends you'll get to know while waiting to be called into court.
And don't just bring one book, bring all 7 Harry Potter books. I guarantee you that you will make it to the part where Cedric dies and Voldemort returns before they call your name.

I arrived at 850 Burdett Street and followed the instructions to head to the 3rd floor. Once the doors opened there I walked out expecting...well I'm not sure really. But not an empty room except for 300 folding chairs set up in rows. 3 hours later and there was more people than chairs, everyone was chatting and wondering what was happening, and here is what I had learned:
1. My new friend Frank likes collecting Hawaiian and Blues records and was turning 60 that day. I told him I'd organize a sing along of Happy Birthday once we were all there. He didn't think that would go over well.
2. I was the only one that showed up in a Canucks jersey. What does one wear to jury selection anyhow?
3. There are civil jury selections and criminal jury selections. I was criminal. (Damn) *editors note: some civil trials last longer than criminal trials. That's scary.
4. I get bored really, really easily.
5. Everyone has a cell phone. They check for texts and calls obsessiviely.
5a) Everyone plays Tapzoo.
5b) Everyone plays Angry Birds
6. Throw 300 strangers in a room together and watch a social experiment unfold. It's fascinating.
7. Anyone and everyone will bring up hockey at some point. (It was playoff time, but still, we considered moving chairs and playing some shinny)
8. People have very strong opinions on Don Cherry.
9. Courtrooms automatically make you feel as if you've done something wrong. Your palms sweat and you feel all grown up ish. You're officially an adult, no more 'playing house' .
10. When the guard says "All Rise" this does not mean you're singing 'O Canada' (I thought we were)

I was raised watching many TV and movie courtroom dramas. You call the judge 'Your Honor' and people scream things like 'I'm out of order, this whole court is out of order!!!' and Objections and Overruled are hurled everywhere and OJ gets off because some juries are absolutely blinded by celebrity, even if the freaking blood trail leads from the crime scene to his car to his house to his bedside and the oh wait, I got carried away again. (OJ's blood was at the crime scene too. That's all I'm saying)
So I was ready for drama. But I forgot the protocol. When they say 'All Rise' you get up when the judge(in Canada it's 'My Lord') enters, and you sit after he sits, and you wait for him to tell you what to do and what the case is about and your civil duty as a human being blah blah blah, oh look, there's a box, why is there a box there, why is the guard guarding the box?

I AM NOT A GOOD JURY SELECTION PERSON.

I'm terribly bad at focusing and staying on point. Turns out I have trouble been impartial too, which is why I got excused. But I was still on the hook for another case they were choosing and let me tell you, it was like Juror's Idol- except you didn't want the lawyer to call your number, because it was 2pm and we'd been there for 6 hours with a 10 minute break and you looked for any excuse to get out of there.
Like Larry who was picked for a break and enter case and tried to get out of it like this:

Guard: "My Lord, the panellist would like to address the court""
Judge: "Very well. I'll allow it" (He said this, he actually said it, I squealed with delight)
Larry: "My Lord, I, um, (clears throat) I dated Judge so and so's daughter a couple of years ago"
Judge: snickering "Uh, well, in this particular case I don't believe that has any relevance here, so I, uh, will ask you to go ahead and take your oath"
He said this in front of 40 other people waiting or not waiting for their number to be called. I clamped my hands over my mouth to keep from guffawing, as I am wont to do.

So the jury was picked and I was not one of them (the judge told us 'if the lawyer challenges you or doesn't want you, it's nothing you did, it's nothing personal) we were allowed to leave. I'm sad to say there were no emails or facebooks or cell numbers exchanged and there were no long sad good byes between me and my new besties (Kathryn, I hope you caught up on all your marking) (Eric, after looking up 'learn to knit' on YouTube, ordering materials and having it delivered to the 3rd floor of courtroom 317 and starting the project, I hope you finish that sweater for your future kid).
Again, and I must stress, if you are ever summoned for jury duty, run the other way, book a flight, pretend you're over 65, make some sandwiches, bring a pillow, become a lawyer and bring a book(s).

Like a Moth to the Flame

Ikea.
We've all been there. We all have stories. It's like we're comrades in the search for cheap deals and funky furnishings.

I hadn't been there since I was a kid.
We had Ikea stuff growing up, it was cheap, it lasted. Each of us had our room colour themes, Shannon was Red, Ashley was Blue, I was Yellow. I'm not sure if we picked those colours ourselves or if our parents just threw us into the ball room and picked stuff out themselves and then hopefully remembered to pick us up later on the way out. We  each got a lamp, a numbered cloth thingy with pockets that hung on your wall and a fold up chair in our respective colors. The lamps have long been disposed of, the chairs are still kicking around and we just received our numbered pocketed thingies back after our step brothers grew out of them. There are also some bookshelves and desk/drawer units that we grew up with still in the garage. This puts some of those items at around 25 years old, at the least. So you get a very long winded bang for your  Ikea spent buck.
I went back this weekend for the first time in 15 years. I was nervous. It was like seeing an ex after a really long time. Could I hold it together long enough to act cool? I had an idea of what I needed and an idea of what I wanted. Those things differ, a lot, all the time. I also had a budget for what I wanted could afford to spend. I was determined to not get carried away or distracted.

I arrived at Ikea with two of my old roommates. Trusted adversaries and confidants, ones I could say to "I have a serious table issue, do I need two side tables and a coffee table or just two side tables? But what if I move my bed and get a new couch?"
And they would get it, and answer like it wasn't a bid deal I was stressed out over tables.
So fine, I had my list, we travelled through the top floor with the displays fine and dandy, I stuck to my list and had my aisle and bin numbers listed and written down. Done and done.
Melody: Well let's go downstairs and see what's there.
Me: What's downstairs?
Melody: All the little things.
Me: Well, pfft, I'm set for that let's have a look.

What I didn't realize is that you can't exit Ikea without wandering through a million miles of plates, towels, sheets, cups, napkins, lamps and vases in every single different shade you can imagine, with 14 different patterns and sizes.
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
My eyes bulged, went different directions, everything they could do but focus and run for the hills. My carefully written list and budget were thrown to the wind as I spotted a bluish glass vase for. I didn't know what it's purpose was, or if it was also secretly a soup pot, I just knew I wanted it and it was 'only' 1.99.

Jars? Sure I need jars. I love jars so, so much. I need 4 for 2 bucks too, and a freaking bamboo holder for 'em too. Why the hell not right? I have shit lying around my house just waiting for the right jar. Ikea is the place.

Towels. Towels in every single color of the rainbow, cause that's how they have them displayed.

Pillows. In the display rooms upstairs they have entire rooms devoted to the colour of red. So now you immediately decide it's time to make that your colour too. Except you don't own anything red. Head downstairs, they have red baskets, red shelves, red kettles, everything will match, just as long as you place those items in the same room at home because really, in reality, you have nothing that is red, nothing that will go along with the twelve red pillows you have in your cart.

Oh look, more jars.
Shelves? I love shelves. And brackets. Don't need them, but let's spend sometime perusing this section for a while.

This place is like a hoarders nightmare. Or dream. I don't know. There is room, after room, after room of stuff. 600 tea-lights for a dollar? Okay. Thirteen thousand bug shaped multicolored lights? Sure, what the hell? Let's get starfish shaped vases while were at it, because we might never see them again selling anywhere ever and I need it now.
I witnessed a few domestic disputes while pondering whether or not I need a dolphin shaped cheese platter.
Wife: What do you think? Red or green napkins?
Husband: Well our house is pretty green already...
Wife: So you think we should get the red napkins?
Husband: No, I'm saying we don't need napkins.
Wife: But if we don't need green we should get red...
Husband: If we get red it'll look like Christmas honey, walk away from the napkins....

There are crazed families trying to get through there as quick as possible, flying down the aisles with carts full of children and cheap Swedish nappies, people wandering aisles holding whisks with great authority. Men curled in corners, women sitting in bathtubs with imaginary glasses of wine, couples holding measuring tape up to one another, wondering if they are worthy enough for a  back splash in Appalachian yellow.
It's a bit morbid how Ikea works. You walk in, happy and hopeful, the displays are bright and cheerful and full or promise and ideas.
And you're led downstairs like a fruit fly to (insert anything in your house, ever here), to the place where your happy little Ikea life will shatter. Suddenly there are proper decisions to be made and measurements to be known. And it will all come down to how much will power you have, how much stamina, and whether or not you've eaten or drank anything in the last two and half hours. Because that's how long you've been down there, and no you can't tell because the only thing that has a proper clock is your cell phone and it's shut down because it's out of range so I guess you'll have to buy a 3 dollar wall clock.
Happily I can report I didn't spend past my budget, I had money leftover for lunch. I got my LAIVA bookcase and my LACK side table because I had a SERIOUS LACK in BUDGET. So there Ikea, you didn't get me, I passed your test, huzzah!!!!
Except I'm totally coming back, bypassing upstairs and will spend my entire time collecting everything I dutifully ignored last weekend.

Documentaries

 I've watched so many documentaries lately and I feel need to tell you to watch them too so when we hang out we can talk about them and discuss.There are a ton I haven't seen yet but are on my list (Gasland, Inside Job, The Cove to name a few) Here are some I've watched recently:

One Day in September, winner of the Oscar in 1999 for Best Documentary. Powerful, harsh, and blunt: about the 1972 Munich Massacre at the Summer Olympics. 11 Israelis were kidnapped by Palestinian extremists. One of the extremists speaks about his role in the hostage. Footage is incredible.



The Tillman Story
Pat Tillman, a football player for the NFL drops everything he knows and enlists in the U.S. Army after 9/11. He is killed in combat and his death is twisted and used by the army to improve it's image and it's role in the war. The real reason for his death is covered up by everyone from his buddies to the president.

About A Son

Basically a story about Kurt Cobain's life by Kurt Cobain, with his voice essentially narrating his life story, taken from telephone interviews over the years, with visuals from Kurt's hometown (Aberdeen, Washington, Seattle etc) playing while he speaks.  The last interview that was conducted was about a month before he was found dead.

Dear Zachary: A letter to a son about his father.

 Absolutely heartbreaking and maddening at the same time. A friend decides to make a movie for a little boy so that he will know who is father was (who was murdered).  Don't look this up on the Internet because it will ruin the ending for you. This one will stick with you for a while.



As I've written this post I realize these movies are all kind of dark or depressing subjects. But people don't generally make documentaries about sunshine and flowers do they? Shit happens, people make movies in order to get knowledge out into a world otherwise preoccupied with Charlie Sheen's latest rant or Lindsay's latest theft.
However, if you do find any documentaries about sunshine/rainbows/puppies let me know, or any other films you've loved, let me know!