PEEWEE with Me!

He's trouble.

He’s trouble.

There are actual real-world advantages to spending as much time as I do on social media. Don’t believe me? FINE! You, then, will not be able to be my date for an 11pm showing of PeeWee’s Big Adventure at the Rio Theatre in glorious uptown Vangroover, just south of The Drive. And why will you be unable to be my date? Because you’ll be sitting in the corner with your fingers in your ears and a pile of electronics around you that you’ve unplugged lest they spy on you through the webcam while you’re asleep, going LALALALALALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU SOCIAL MEDIA DOES NOT PAY OFF EYE ARR ELL. Yes, you will.

Here’s the announcement. Now to find a date. Any brave volunteers want to step up?

FREE TICKETS ALERT: “You don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.” What can we say about Tim Burton’s PEE WEE’S BIG ADVENTURE? It’s a whimsical delight that, like Pee Wee himself, just never gets old. Burton’s career has had an interesting trajectory since this film’s release in 1985; some would argue that he hasn’t made a good film in years and is really just a frustrated set decorator. *What’s your favourite Tim Burton movie and why?* Leave your comment below to maybe (probably) win TWO TICKETS to PEE WEE’S BIG ADVENTURE this Friday at 11:00. Winners (and there will be many, especially if you take a moment to SHARE THIS POST) contacted via Facebook email (check your “other” box so as not to miss out!) and must be 19+. *PLEASE SHARE* this link, it really helps us let people know what we’re doing! Good luck!

And here’s the comment I made that won it for me:

So, who’s the brave person who will consent to be my Plus One for the evening? If you think it might be unendurable, always remember: they serve beer at the Rio. Volunteers please line up in the comments section.

Return to Mildew Manor



Yes, after many a dallying and a wandering, the ego has finally, wearily, at last, landed. I’m home.

While I’ve been gone the patches of mildew have spread, stippling the interior walls of my living room with greyish patterns like poorly printed, ancient maps of archipelagos. And instead of wallpaper, I have vertical stripes of black threatening to break through the drywall every couple of feet, the mark of something moisture-based and imminent on the other side of that gyprock. When I walked through the place, spiders scattered like confetti in a backdraft. Something left small mammalian footprints on my chair.

And then there’s the mess.

The mess is such that it took me fully five minutes to realize I’d been broken into. It wasn’t till I walked into the living room and saw the suitcase that I most assuredly hadn’t left empty (it was nice of them to unpack me, even if they only put it on the sofa; hell, that’s all I ever do, myself) lying, as I said, empty, in the middle of the floor, patiently waiting to be filled with booty.

Oh, speaking of boots.Do you want to know what they took? Yes, you do; of course you do. Don’t be too proud to admit it now. We all want to know what losses other people have suffered, if only to reassure ourselves that we, at least, haven’t lost our hammered copper vase.

I lost my hammered copper vase. Shit, y’all know how I love me some hammered copper. They took my mercury glass Gazing Ball out of it, and then stuffed it and some assorted other stuff I don’t specifically remember from my bookcases because you know what? I have a lot of stuff in my bookcases although somewhat less than before, into a bag or something but not the suitcase because HEY the suitcase was still there. Aren’t you paying attention?

They lifted up about $700 worth of solid silver engraved cuffs, threw them on the floor, and grabbed all my junk jewelry that was underneath them. Unfortunately, they also got two of my actual silver bracelets: one made by a friend and the other my charm bracelet that I’d had since I was 10 or so. They may or may not have gotten the very fancy silver lace bracelet with a different monument on each panel that my mother got in Paris on her honeymoon.

They got every. single. pair. of. my. high. heeled. shoes.



Sheldon can't believe it either

Sheldon can’t believe it either

Not my patent leather cut-out open toed booties with the ribbon ties. No. Not them.

Dr Please

Dr Please

But yes. Yes. They got them.



AND my leopard print stilettos. Yes. REALLY. The leopard print stilettos.

Once I’d recovered (as if anyone ever could fully recover from that) and taken a quick spin around the rest of the place, I saw they’d grabbed pretty much every DVD I own, my late mother’s jewelry box, and, of all the perverse, bastardly things to steal, my Harry Potter books.

In hardcover.

Bad enough, but could be worse. Could have been a lot worse. I could have been home, for instance, which would have ended badly.



Well, I got myself calmed down, picked the suitcase up, and left to spend the night at a friend’s house. A few days later, I returned.

No-one had cleaned up in the meantime. Damn.

I did get one ego stroke, when a few very clued-in Anons suggested it was law enforcement or similar, grabbing the DVDs and leaving the good jewelry to make it look like a junkie. Unlikely, but if that is, in fact, the case, someone tell Officer Friendly I would like my charm bracelet back.

And the family silver.

Actually, it’s silver plate, not valuable, and about six mismatched patterns: Art Deco geometry, swirly flowers on curvy stems, all kinds of things. Two pearl-handled butter knives with curly, engraved blades that fascinated me when I was little. A long, serrated, ivory-handled knife, always warm to the touch. Four sets of sugar tongs and pincers. A couple of tea strainers. An absinthe spoon. Two pickle forks. Three baby spoons, one mine, and a baby fork with Little Red Ridinghood on one side and “Marguerite” on the other.

Marguerite was my Great-Uncle Ernie’s daughter, who died before she turned 25 of diabetes. That was before the Second World War. I always thought if I had a little girl I’d call her Marguerite, and now I almost feel as if I can’t.

Uncle Ernie used to come and take us to the zoo every Sunday. He was the kind of old man who is never not described as “kindly,” and had been the last person to drive a team of horses for Weston’s bakery, the foundation of the Weston billions. They retired him and the horses at the same time, but none of them wanted to be put out to pasture, and the customers raised such a stink that the company brought them all back to clop down the streets of Winnipeg for another ten years, until the horses really were beat and he was ready to settle into his shabby-genteel apartment downtown. It was where my parents kept the wedding presents that were too delicate to have in a house with two rambunctious little girls. After he died, his sisters got in there and we never saw those again either.

So. The silver.

Dear B&E Artiste: I would like it back.

And if you knew what I was capable of, you would want me to have it.

pic o’ the day: Topshop

top down topshop

top down topshop

I love this picture, even if I’m not sure about the belt. It’s top-to-bottom Topshop chic, there are no stirrup pants or pricy stripper heels (Louboutins) in it, and it is wonderfully composed. Stolen from Rommy Ghaly’s Flickr via Vancity Buzz.

Vancouver Sometimes Isn’t Awesome

Marketing iz always thrilling

Marketing iz always thrilling

One of my good friends has started a FB thread asking how many people would leave Vancouver if they could, but remain only for family reasons. Quite a lot of people say they would leave if they could. Several of the best people I know have, in fact, left; I myself left to go to Yellowknife last year. And people from outside wonder why.

Wonder no more. Read and learn.

A different friend of mine was welcomed to the board of Vancouver Is Awesome. Great. Awesome. However.

  • Lorraine Murphy Tell them to unBlock me on Twitter. They got awful touchy when I pointed out they Followed Jason Priestly and they blocked me.
    9 hours ago · “}”>Like · 1
  • Morten Rand-Hendriksen Cool. Congrats.
    9 hours ago · “}”>Like
  • Wayne Shaddow They blocked you Lorraine? See, this kind of thing worries me. Sounds like a “if you say anything against us, you’ll be blacklisted” thing. Out the window goes the ‘social’.
    9 hours ago · “}”>Like
  • Lorraine Murphy Yep, they blocked me. They were talking to someone else, and said “Sorry we don’t follow you but we only Follow accounts that list awesome events in Vancouver.” That’s when I asked how many Vancouver events Jason Priestly posts and BAM! Blocked. I get that people can have a bad day. God knows, I get that. But you’ve got to make it right. Or Jason Priestly better start posting events!
    8 hours ago · “}”>Like · 3
  • Richard Loat Awesome!
    8 hours ago · “}”>Like
  • Bob Kronbauer

    Lorraine, I blocked you (2 years ago now?) after you randomly knocked me with a few unsolicited snarky remarks. From what I remember I had no interactions with you aside from the times you felt like hurling something at me. I don’t enjoy be

    ing pecked at, so I blocked you. Please move on. It’s been a long time.

    Wayne, please don’t let it worry you. If you were standing in front of me in real life and did the same, a bunch of times, I would block you with my hand and then walk away and likely avoid having interactions with you in the future. Like blocking on Twitter. “Social” online means the same to me as social in person, and I don’t socialize by hurling snarky remarks at people before I even properly introduce myself. That’s called heckling.

    Anyway… this board of advisors is SO AWESOME and I am honoured to have you on board, Rebecca.

    You are, of course, free to Like or Dislike, but you may do so whether or not Jason Priestley ( who is by all accounts a decent guy) approves or not.

Heroin: the comic

Heroin the comic

Heroin the comic

That’s about it.

This week was GST Refund Week, as April told me, which explains the nonstop sirens and drama out on the street. Everyone’s got an extra hundred bucks that won’t be deducted from their Welfare, so they’re buying whatever makes them feel good. God, I actually miss the days heroin was the dominant drug, because junkies are way less trouble to deal with than crackies or meth heads. April taught me the word “jib” the other day; I love my young friends, they keep me au courant.

One of my long-running jokes is that I want to make a cleaning service of meth-heads and OCD sufferers. I could probably get a government grant to pay their salary, and they’d be the most meticulous team ever. That was before I read William Vollmann‘s book Poor People in which he interviewed a Thai cleaning woman who really DID use meth to give her the energy to get through particularly difficult jobs.

Who in hell tries heroin thinking they won’t get addicted? I know three people who’ve tried it and not gotten addicted, and at least one who tried it once and had to move to the country where he couldn’t get it as easily, because he quickly recognized he’d do anything for more. And today, walking in the community gardens, I saw a large, healthy harvest of opium poppy pods waiting for their daily scraping (you harvest it kind of like maple sap, scraping off the oozing tar, yum).

Back when I was with Greenpeace one of my co-workers came back from canvassing in Strathcona and said he’d run into a lesbian couple in their 80’s or so who invited him in for tea and offered him jasmine, Earl Grey, or opium. They said they’d been harvesting it from their flowerboxes since the 50’s or so, and nobody had ever bothered them. Well, who would?