Gone in the blink of an eye...

Today marks four months to the day since I lost the funniest, kindest, most original person I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  Four months ago I stood shocked around a hospital bed with Matt and the rest of our family, staring in disbelief at the near-lifeless form in front of us, lying so still and silent.  Four months ago, I held his hand and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him, for the very first and very last time in my life.  He was so warm.  His chest still rose and fell.  His heart still beat.  He looked like he was sleeping.  Four months ago, I thought he would wake up.  Four months ago today, I was in the ICU at Kingston General Hospital saying goodbye to my friend.  Not 'see you later,' not 'catch you at the next gig,' but goodbye.  Forever.
 
Four months ago today, on June 28th, Jesse Eammon Archer was shot in the head and killed, for nothing more (we'd all like to think) than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  That is such a cliche, and while I used to believe that you get what you deserve in this life; that good always prevails and that karma always wins out in the end, I can't possibly allow myself to believe such idealistic dribble anymore.  To believe in karma would be to believe that the eldest of my three 'little brothers' did something to deserve the hand he was dealt.  And while I'm sure there were many things about his life that Peck chose not to share with us, nothing he could have possibly been hiding would EVER warrant a death like this.

He did not play with guns.  He did not choose to befriend common criminals.  He did not deal drugs.  He did not believe in violence, or bullshit, or trying to be cool (he just was, without any effort at all.)  He did not believe in having to prove himself to anyone, or taking crap from people who didn't understand him, or copying others.  So I ask you, what could he POSSIBLY have done to deserve being executed like he was?  I have been asking myself this for months now, and I still come up with nothing, each and every time.

I try to tell myself that he died to remind us all that we take things - and more importantly, people - for granted.  I try to tell myself that he died so that the five recipients of his organ donations would have another chance at life, or so we would all realize how stupid and reckless it is to carry a handgun, for any reason.  I try to cheer myself up by remembering that he would not want me to be sad all the time, and that he would want me to remember the good times we all shared and all the laughs we had together during his life, and to not focus on the atrocities and injustice surrounding his death.  I try to tell myself all these things, but it still hurts so much.  It is still as fresh and as raw as it was when I had to look at him one last time and say goodbye.  I am not appeased by these optimistic notions in the very least.  I know I should be, and that there is some truth to them, but I am not.

I do not believe in God.  I do not believe in the devil either, for that matter.  I do not believe in heaven or hell or reincarnation or fate or unicorns or leprechauns.  I do not mean to anger or shock anyone by saying this.  I DO respect everyone's right to believe whatever they choose, and I know that while some people want or need religion to get themselves through this life, I am not one of those people.  That being said, I do not criticize or mock those who are.  If you want to believe that our 'savior' is a magical, all-knowing water buffalo, be my guest.  Believe what you want to believe, just don't try to force it down my throat.  Respect is reciprocal, in religion as it is in anything else.

If we are going to get all philosophical about it, when it all boils down to it, I believe in science.  I believe in the Law of Conservation of Energy, which states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred or changed into a different form.  I don't know anyone who will deny that 'life' is a form of energy, and I don't think I want to know anyone who would try to deny such a thing.  In that vein, as it pertains to the fundamental principles of physics, when we die, our energy does not.  Cannot.  They don't call them laws for nothing, you know.

Who knows what happens to it, this life energy.  Is it absorbed into the ground?  Does it dissipate into the atmosphere?  Does it just get passed around until it eventually sparks the beginning of new life?  We could (and have) spend centuries speculating, and still grasp at straws.  The truth is, we will never know.

All I know is, I want my brother back.

I love you, pecker...  I miss you so much... *sigh*

A GIANT Frank!??! As if he wasn't big enough...

While perusing the paper today, I came across something that made me do a serious double-take, and THIS was it:

Not Frank...

It wasn't merely the fact that this glorious cat, 48.5" long 'Stewie' from Reno, NV was inducted into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the longest domestic cat ever (read the article about Stewie HERE), but that he is a dead-ringer for my own good-natured, fuzzy-headed little tiger, Frank.  I know that cats are cats, and a lot of cats look like a lot of other cats, but this cat really REALLY looks like Frank.  Here, judge for yourself:

Frank!  (he looks much longer if you stretch him out...)

If you know Frank, you love Frank.  It's as simple as that.  Unless you are Matt, and then you just don't understand how marvelous he actually is.  Frank really does resemble a small-scale tiger.  He has big fat tiger feet that are about the size of my palm when he flexes his toes, he's stripy all over (some places more than others), and when he walks, his shoulders roll under his luxurious pelt in such a way that is reminiscent of his larger, fiercer cousins.  He is svelte, strong, lithe and graceful, and he packs quite a punch, if you are a catnip mouse.  He would pack a punch regardless, but the chances of Frank actually hurting someone are pretty slim.  He is a gentle giant, and he is my sweetheart. 

If you met Frank without first understanding how sweet he actually is, he might be a little intimidating.  The kids next door are petrified of him.  When I let him outside and he does his wild, careening victory lap around the backyard, they back up against the fence.  He is a BIG CAT.  Certainly not as big as Stewie there, but still, he is quite formidable, based on sheer size alone.  He is twenty pounds of muscle swathed in a whole lot of fur, and when you say hello to him, his standard greeting consists of flopping on his back and opening his mouth as wide as he possibly can to show you his pearly whites, which are pretty daunting, I must say.  Is this some feline salutation I don't know about?  I have never met another cat who does this, but maybe because every other cat I've ever met has better manners, or just isn't as confident about his dental care regimen...

He may look ferocious, but Frank is a big softie in every possible way.  Soft of fur, soft of nature, and, dare I say it, soft in the head.  He is not the sharpest tool in the shed by any means, but he makes up for it with his sweet, bumbling disposition and a big friendly smile.  He never seemed to grow up, and while that makes him pretty annoying at times - like, for example, when he used to open the kitchen cupboard in the middle of the night and liberate the potatoes (I walked into the bathroom one morning to find a five inch baking potato sitting on the bath mat, and upon further investigation discovered Frank rolling red potatoes around the kitchen floor with much excitement.  It wasn't the last time he was found playing with them, either.) - I find it most endearing.  The way he looks at me with those sea-foam green eyes, oh my heart just melts.  His deep, rusty, rumbly purr certainly makes up for all those mad dashes around the apartment at 3am, stalking twist-ties and paper balls and god knows what else...

Frank's athletic proficiency and hunting prowess is astounding.  While not welcome at 3am, it is almost always entertaining to see him execute his acrobatics, whether they be in the form of 180-degree turns in mid-air while chasing butterflies (yes, he chases butterflies!) or death-defying leaps after a bit of menacing string, or proudly trotting in and dropping a live mouse on my chest in a fit of ecstasy at showing his mom what he has caught (of course I told him what a good boy he was... after recoiling in horror and making little girl noises...).  While not the best hunter in the world, he sure keeps the flies and moths under control, and hey, maybe we just don't have that many mice in the first place.

Though now nine years old, Frank will always be my little boy.  He has come a long way, but he still channels 'baby Frank' on a daily basis.  Those nights when he purrs so loud and stomps on my chest bring back memories of his little kitten-self sleeping beside me on the pillow in our apartment in Cobourg all those years ago.  He would fall asleep with a grin on his face, only to wake up crying every time a train went by.  He still has a little wee kitteny meow too, which is so surprising coming from such a burly brute - when you hear it, you just have to laugh.  One would expect him to positively ROAR, but he has two voices... soft falsetto, or gnarly yowl. 

How could I NOT fall in love with this guy?

But where did he come from?  What's Frank's story?  A lot of people have suggested to me that he looks like he has some Maine Coon in him.  Certainly in comparing him to Stewie, the resemblance is quite obvious.  He has the size, the paws, the long hair, the tufts on the ears, the easygoing demeanor.  But we will never know for sure.  Truth be told, Frank is 100% Warkworth Barn Cat.  In 2001, the Archers' cat Pippa had three kittens - Frank, Brownie, and Wheezy.  Pippa was a horrid mother who never took care of her babies, and since I was there a lot of the time, I did the majority of her mothering for her.  When the kittens were old enough to open their eyes, they simply couldn't, due to a build-up of crusty goop that Pippa should have been cleaning away, so I would wash the kittens' eyes each day so they could see.  In fact, I was the first living thing that little Frank ever saw, now that I think about it.  Maybe that's why he's so attached to me.  (I like to think so.)


When it was time to find the kittens homes, Brownie and Wheezy were taken up to Cordova Mines, to our friend Sherman's house.  While a great lover of cats, Sherman is pretty boisterous - he subsequently scared the shit out of Wheezy and she was never heard from again.  Poor Brownie met with an unfortunate accident with a riding lawn mower shortly thereafter, but Frank was still kicking around at the Archers' place.  Matt and I even brought him to Hamilton to meet mom and dad and their cat Spot, but we ended up bringing him home again.  It was MATT, believe it or not, who said 'aw, he's so cute... let's keep him.'  I wasn't going to argue with that.  (Thank you Matt)  It was also Matt who gave him his name - after Zappa, of course, who seems to have an important role in almost all of my life's major events thus far. 

So Frank came to stay, and we developed the close bond that we share to this day.  He is the noblest, gentlest kitty I have ever known.  He takes everything in stride, my boy does.  From cutting his nails and brushing out mats, to cleaning his gunky ears, to riding in the car to visit the vet, he just sits passively without fuss or complaint.  He can always be counted on to make me smile, even when everything is falling apart all around me, and I know he will always offer not one, but two furry shoulders to cry on when the world has let me down.  He even gives kisses, if you count violently mashing his nose into your face with as much blunt force as he can muster (he has given me a bloody nose before, so you know he means it.)

At only 38 inches, Frank falls ten or so inches short of matching Stewie's length, but I certainly don't hold it against him.  Size isn't everything, after all.  He may not be the longest cat there is, but he is definitely the sweetest, and I wouldn't trade him in for all the Stewies in the entire world.  You're a very good boy, Frankofelis, and I love you.

Sleep tight, little tiger!

Thanks to the lovely ShannonP for the two head shots of my boy in the backyard... the toothy one and the dreamy one... 

I'm great at my new job... ha ha

Hey folks, so sorry for not posting anything lately, I'm so busy at work... ha ha.  After declaring my intentions to become a freelance writer, I have been bombarding myself (and bombarded by others, thankfully) with references and tips of all kinds, and I have been dutifully following up every lead with gusto.  So far, I have learned that:

A) This is harder than it looks... ha ha

B)  It is considered 'bad form' to submit any one article to more than one publication at any given time.  You must wait for rejection letters from the first publication before you can pass it on the the next one.  (I'm going to have to start writing more...)

C)  Editors that will actually pay you money for articles need to see that you have a few under your belt first, so you are going to have to give a lot of your work away for free, at least in the beginning (hopefully only in the beginning).

D)  I will likely not see a single penny for a long long time.

But Fear not!  I am not discouraged... I have already submitted an article, and I am working on my entry for the 2010 CBC Literary Awards (thanks, Maggie!).  If I win first prize, I get $6000.00, and wouldn't THAT be nice?!  I am writing away diligently - not as much as I would like, but I was sidetracked this weekend by seeing Roger Waters' production of 'The Wall' in Ottawa with Jane.  I would try to explain more about that, but I am still agog.  Only those who have witnessed this will understand what I mean... to still be agog, four days after the fact.

Anyways, I'm trying to keep up with the blog, I really am... once I get off the ground and the novelty wears off a bit, I'm sure I'll get right back on track.  Maybe when the agogness of seeing The Wall wears off I will return to my senses...

Until then, here's a picture of me in a bunny hat... Enjoy!

(yes, I realize I am not going to win the CBC Lit award with my first ever serious essay... but a girl can dream, can't she?)

Well, you asked for it... (sorry Steph and Ian... ha ha)

Recently I have been suffering from a long, painful bout of the worst kind of 'Writer's Block'.  'Writer's Block' has always been one of those mystifying afflictions that puzzles me to no end.  I can always voice my opinion; there is no 'Speaker's Block;' so why do I have such difficulty putting these words down for all the world to read?  (I am thinking it is 90% laziness... ha ha)  Anyway, at such times, thanks to the marvels of social networking, all I need do is ask for a topic and before too long, something interesting will present itself - for good or ill (in this case, ill.)  Don't worry, those articles about trains, migration patterns of Great White Sharks, the evils of cell phones, and Australian magpies are coming... I'll get right on them... ha ha

ugh

 Today when I asked for help, fortune smiled upon me in the form of one Jordan Samuel Newhouse, who suggested I write about 'your adorable lovely little cousin, me :) and my out look on the world from ur perspective :P'  Well be careful what you wish for, dear cousin... your time has come.  (...and I'm not even going to mention your horrific spelling and grammar...)

I feel I have to offer up a bit of background information here... Jordan and I have been locked in a battle of wits (although it's pretty one-sided - Jordie being on the losing end, the poor little thing) that started when I was just finishing high school.  I was often enlisted to babysit this now-adolescent nitwit and his two lovely, beautiful, angelic sisters Lauren and Alexa.  What I remember most from the times we shared during this period is a relentless barrage of questions from Jordie whenever I saw him.  Which doesn't sound so bad, except they were THE SAME questions, each and every time.  The same questions, barked one after another, as if I was being drilled by some tiny, pre-pubescent Spanish Inquisitor.

'Why is your hair that colour?  How many tattoos do you have?  Why do you have so many?  Does it hurt?  Which one's your favourite?  Which one's your second favourite?  Are you going to get more?  Do you have a boyfriend?  What's his name?  Do you kiss him?  Are you going to marry him?  Can I be your ring-bearer?  Where does he live?  What does he do?  Can I see your tongue ring?  Does THAT hurt?'

It doesn't seem so bad, but it was brutal.  Delivered in rapid-fire succession with little time for uncertainty, the only thing missing was a dangling 100W light bulb burning a hole in my retinas.

As a result, all throughout my youth whenever I had the 'pleasure' of crossing paths with Jordie, I promised him that one day he would get his... one day I would exact my revenge and make his life a living hell.  I would one day strive to annoy and embarrass him every chance I got.  And I'm trying.  I don't see him very often, but when I do, I'm all over him like nobody's business, plus I try to harass him online at every turn.  And I like to think of myself as being pretty handy when it comes to sarcastic jabs and snappy one-liners...  but so far, I don't think I'm doing much damage.

The problem is, he LOVES it.  He lives to be teased.  For a while there I thought I was seriously off my game, but I've come to the conclusion that he just has some twisted hardcore masochistic tendencies, and I fear that picking on him is just giving him what he wants (and we all know there's no fun in that.)  Dear Jordan seems to welcome ridicule and laughter wherever he goes, and it's just too easy sometimes.  He takes all of the enjoyment out of flippant insults.  It is a sorry state of affairs.  I can't decide if he really lives his life like this, or what?  Is this guy for real?  Seriously?

The boy is obsessed with Lady Gaga.  He has a Lady Gaga party room in his basement; he plays her music nonstop; he would even DRESS like her if he could, I'm sure of it.  You'd think it'd be easy based on that fact alone, but no.  To poke fun at Lady Gaga is to engage in a tiring hour-long discussion about how fabulous she is and what breakfast cereal she might be enjoying that day or what she uses to get stains out of her gimp masks and kermit suits, and frankly I just can't stomach it.

He calls himself JEWHOUSE.  While he gravely assures me that there is no Antisemitism behind it (he's not that kind of guy), and that he has merely replaced the first letter of his last name with the first letter of his first name - because I guess this is something 'the kids' do these days - I can't help but sincerely wish that some lovely Jewish person beats the shit out of him on a daily basis.  (Jordie, I mean that... from the bottom of my heart.)

Jordan invites abuse and mockery in everything he does, and I just can't fathom it.  How can someone be so annoyingly ridiculous yet so unflappable at the tender age of sixteen?  Oh his poor, long-suffering parents.  If they had known such a cherubic little boy would turn out to be such a toad, they surely would have drowned him in a bucket before the age of two.  Most importantly, what does this nonchalance say about me?  Am I losing my touch?  I'm really going to have to step up my game here.  There has to be some way to expose his tender underbelly... no one is THAT good.

I must say though, I do admire his self-confidence.  He reminds me a little of me in that regard (which hopefully offends him greatly.)  At sixteen there was very little anyone could do or say to get my goat either, and there still is.  My goat just can't be gotten, for the most part, and I hope Jordie can say the same when he is thirty years old.  As much as I love to bug him, Jordan can be very funny and even witty, and we do have a lot of fun together.  But nothing seems to faze him; all of my half-assed attempts to wound his pride or make a fool of him fizzle out before they can do much damage, which is not a bad thing by any means... so there's that.  I guess.

seriously?

Mind you, I probably shouldn't sell myself short just yet; he does have it made in the shade.  Life is pretty sweet for label-clad, well-fed Jordan in his Ancaster mansion, with his swimming pool and his happily married parents and his doting MorMor there to put up with his constant crap all the time.  I would love to hear about how Jordie can't make his rent or can't get his crops in or doesn't know how he is going to pay the electric bill this month... 

Yep, it's pretty easy to defend yourself in this world and not let things bother you when you are young, male, 6'2", blond-haired and blue-eyed, with lots of friends and no shortage of cash.  I would probably admire his imperturbability a hell of a lot more or give him a lot more credit if he didn't have his affluence and popularity to back him up all the time.  In my humble opinion, it's much more commendable to stick to your guns and be yourself when you don't have the majority of Ancaster High School dressing like you, acting like you, listening to the same music as you, and living the same pampered, spoiled life as you.  Which makes me wonder if Jordie really is who he says he is, or if he's just another small fry swimming with the stream in a school of conformity...

I guess only time will tell.  Until then, Lord Gaga, I refuse to admit defeat, and I await your next move...

...even his MOM can't stand him...

Potato-head Bobby was a friend of mine...

looky-here!  I'm a farmer!

Early this spring, I opened my 'potato-bin' (AKA pot lid drawer) and found THIS staring back at me:

...open three of his eyes in the food stamp line...

Ok, well he wasn't in a glass of water... and he didn't have the drawn-on eyes, nose or mouth... but you get the idea.  Because of his outrageous hairdo and the obvious facial features (and arms!), I named him Bobby and decided to let him flourish on the kitchen counter for as long as he wished (he was way too old for eating, anyways).

After about two months of 'flourishing,' Bobby decided he was destined to move on to bigger and better things... namely, ROTTING on the kitchen counter for as long as he wished.  Poor Bobby.  My affections for him ran deep, but when he started to fill the house with musty, moldy potato reek, I decided he had to get out and make his own way in the world.  Instead of tossing my dear friend unceremoniously into the green bin like so much common organic waste, I planted him in the garden beside the sage bush with his 'hair' sticking out, just to see what would become of him.  All in the name of science, you see...

As the summer waxed and waned, Bobby's hair grew into a viny mass of leaves and flowers, and I could only dream of what was going on underneath the soil that held him captive for the duration of his short life.  I tended Bobby with great care (ok, Matt tended Bobby with great care... I am not much of a gardener...) and took great interest in his day-to-day pursuits, so you can imagine how proud I was when tiny little potato nubs started poking their round little heads around his circumference.  I never imagined I would actually get anything edible from Bobby; it was more of a science project than anything else...

But!  Yesterday was the day.  I simply couldn't wait any longer: it was time to harvest Bobby's progeny.  As I carefully excavated the earth from beneath his yellowing hair, I was amazed to see the size of the crop that Bobby had bestowed upon me for all my love and devotion, perhaps in thanks for saving him from the compost heap:

...the bottom one's for you, Maggie... I know how you love mutant produce... ha ha

POTATOES!!  WOW!

Yes, I do realize that if you plant a potato that has sprouted 'eyes', you are going to eventually get little potatoes; I know how farming works... (well, I have some idea of how farming works, but let's be fair; I did grow up in Hamilton.  We aren't exactly known for being an agricultural mecca.)  However, I certainly didn't expect this!  All these tender, tasty tubers, just for me! A perfect plethora of potatoes!  A beautiful bounty of baby Bobbies! 

I am very grateful to Bobby for awarding me this starchy gift.  So grateful, in fact, that tonight Matt and I will devotedly devour each and every last one of his children after roasting them with olive oil and garlic... or maybe potato salad?  I'm sure Bobby wouldn't mind.  Why else would he have produced so many?  Did he think I was going to lovingly raise ALL of them in the eerie fluorescence of my tiny kitchen?  If so, well... sorry Bobby... must have been a miscommunication somewhere along the line.  Don't you worry though, I'll take real good care of them... mmmm... tubers...