Dear Jack Kerouac... and JG

I can't remember when I started working at the Concordia University libraries. 

I had probably already started university, which made me at least 18 years old/young. I wasn't looking for what Oprah describes as an Aha! moment, but I sure as shit found one.

I found him...

I found Jack Kerouac.

I was shelving books and  suddenly, somehow, everything changed.

My job was to take carts of books that had been returned by students and replace them on the shelves according to Library of Congress classification. 

As I entered the PS section, dedicated to American literature, the air changed and something in me shifted.  

I opened a book called On the Road. 

I didn't know who Jack Kerouac was, and I sure as shit didn't know what a hipster was, but I did know that for the first time in my life, I read something that described almost exactly how I felt.

I was floored. 

Like, literally, on the floor. 

Reading, reading and reading.

And then, reading some more.

Everyday, I would sneak into the PS section, find Kerouac and read. 

When one book was done, I would start another. When they were all done, I read them all over again.

I was in heaven.

I was in love.

In love with words. 

In love with the truth.

Since then, a lot has happened. 

Some good. 

Some bad.

No matter what happens though, I can always count on Kerouac for pointing my soul in the right direction.

I'm not one for talking about my emotions, and maybe it sounds cheesy, but I literally cannot read one of his lines without shedding a tear.

A big, fat, long, juicy one.
 

Even though I graduated in Journalism (and Political Science) and live for words (metaphorically, of course), I'm not great at saying them. 

Thinking them, sure.

Writing them, maybe. 

Saying them, definitely not.

 So here's to my hero, the great thinker, speaker and writer of words.

Jack Kerouac. 

Born in Lowell, Massachusetts to French Canadian parents in 1922. Started writing On the road in French. Died in 1969, at the age of 47, while drinking whiskey.

You stole my heart at the age of 18. 

And again at the age of 34 (35?) in the DR.

And over and over again.

Until the end, and forever.

The art of war

"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak."
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Some people call it pugilism while others refer to it as "the sweet science." 

According to Merriam-Webster it's the art of attack and defense, with the fists, practiced as a sport.

Boxing.

It's all that... and to me, it's so much more.

I started boxing around 10 years ago after being attacked by a client at an employment resource centre in Toronto. I wasn't looking to learn to fight, or (even) to get even, but something about being physically attacked at work had left me feeling very vulnerable.

At the time, I was working out at a regular gym right near work. One evening, after my usual (boring) workout, I noticed two heavy bags in one very small room. The girl who was working them was tiny but fierce and something about the intense look of concentration on her face made me pause.

She saw me watching and invited me in. She showed me how to position my feet and how to pivot one foot when throwing a punch. She told me she had just started working at the gym, part-time, and would be giving a few boxing classes a week.

I really wanted to do it but I was intimidated. Who am I kidding? I was downright scared. I asked a friend of mine to join me and since she agreed I had no excuses not to give it a try.

And so one fateful night we walked into the very small room... and I never looked back.

I loved every aspect of it. I liked the training, including the skipping, push-ups and sit-ups. I liked the camaraderie. I especially liked how difficult it was. Every week it felt like the hardest thing I had done but every week I wanted to go back and try harder. Do better. 

After a while, I joined a boxing gym and started taking my training seriously. I changed the way I ate, what I drank and how I lived. I was far from being anyone's Million Dollar Baby but I was proud of myself.

I started sparring and realized that I even liked getting hit in the face by my 250-pound trainer. 

As long as I got to hit him back.

I started reading books about boxing, watching boxing matches on television and even met George Chuvalo, the Canadian heavyweight boxer who fought from 1956 to 1978 and famously said after a fight with Muhammad Ali "He went to the hospital with bleeding kidneys and me, I went dancing with my wife."  

 
After moving back to Montreal I slowly lost track of boxing. I joined a regular gym and went back to my usual (boring) workouts. 

But I always missed it. 

The feeling I had when I skipped and everything disappeared except for the sound of the rope flying through the air. The emotion I felt when I hit the bag and it echoed across the room.

They say the most meaningful things are sometimes the very same things that scare you the most. For me, that's exactly how it was with boxing.

So last week, after three years of not doing something I loved, I tried it again. Nothing had changed - not the feeling and not the emotion. Nothing except for my own level of fitness.  

Thanks to Studio Breathe and a 50-minute boxing class, I was back in the ring - figuratively, at least. 

And I loved every minute it.

Love, money, party

March 31st, or the day I finally saw Miley Cyrus perform live, came and went with nary a comment from your favourite (well, maybe not YOUR favourite) blogger.

But I'm back from the abyss and ready to blog about MY favourite hot dog riding songstress.

Me and my two "smileys" decided to make a 24-hour extravaganza out of the event. We booked a "shwanky" room at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, packed a wholesome picnic that included  a variety of libations and started the day off right... with a bottle of Moet & Chandon!

After a variety of activities, including a scratch-inducing dip in the hotel's hot tub and an upside-down twerking competition (also known as a twerk off), we were ready to hit the road. But not before we each found the perfect outfit to emulate, and honour, our idol.  

Due to my slightly less than successful attempt to create a stunning, last-minute black and gold french manicure we arrived a few minutes late, well into Miley's first song.

Sacrilege.

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks - wrecking ball stylez.

Instead of being the coolest or best-dressed people there we were actually... the oldest.

As I ruminated on this eye-opening (and slightly depressing) turn of events I tried to imagine having to wear Miley's ultra high-cut outfits night after night.

 pussy cat

Grandma much?

Speaking of grandmas... turns out we weren't the oldest people at the show after all. There was a 70 year-old woman there with her gentleman friend who was clearly having the time of her life. 

As for the show, it was everything I expected. And more. The entire evening had a decidedly "turnt up" vibe that suited us just fine. 

And then it ended, slightly less elegantly than it began, with a visit to McDonald's. 

Moet, Miley and McDonald's. Who can ask for anything more, really?

miley merch

Love, money, party...








 

 

The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming

What is popular in Iran, Japan and the United States, is sometimes served with egg noodles and was first created in Russia by Elena Molokhovet in 1861?

Beef Stroganoff! 

Traditionally made with cubes of beef, onion and sour cream, the version I recently tried included carrots, peas and vermouth and was baked in individual pie cups with the help of a muffin pan (or two).

The name Stroganoff likely derives from the Stroganovs, a family of rich, Russian merchants, industrialists, landowners and statesmen. The richest family in the Tsardom of Russia since the reign of Ivan the Terrible, the beef Stroganoff pie cups I made in honour of a recent visit from the beau were anything but! 

Instead of trying a traditional, Russian recipe I went with a version made famous by the woman with "the best a$$ in Hollywood," as a (slightly inebriated) friend of mine once famously said.

Ye old Betty Crocker.

The trick to getting the pie cups out properly, and in one piece, is to wait for them to cool completely (which I unfortunately didn't do the first night we ate them).

I hope you enjoy them as much as we did!

It is interesting to note that the first lady of food never actually existed (and thus also likely never had the best a$$ in Hollywood). 

The name Betty Crocker was created by General Mills' predecessor, the Washburn Crosby Company, to personalize responses to customer inquiries. The name Crocker comes from William G. Crocker, a recently retired company executive. The name Betty was chosen because it sounded "warm and friendly."  

Miley March madness countdown

The countdown to "getting our twerk on" has begun! 

In exactly 24 days, me and the Rens get to see Miley Cyrus ride a giant hot dog at the Bell Centre. 

If that isn't something to look forward to I don't know what is!

I've professed my love, and admiration, for Miley on this blog before (like here, and here). Despite this fact, and the fact that she is a very talented singer, I regularly get met with inquisitive, shocked and even judgy looks of disapproval when I tell people that I'm a fan.

People act like she's the first woman to use her sexuality (in addition to her tongue and teddy bears) to sell albums.

Beyonce? Check. Britney Spears? Check. Katy Perry? Check. Lady Gaga? Check. Madonna? Check. Rihanna? Check. Shakira? Check. Xtina? Check. 

Etc.

The difference between her and them (apart from Xtina) is that she actually has the vocal talent to back up "her antics."

miley performing lana del rey's summertime sadness

What never ceases to amaze me is how people aren't critical of men who use naked women (I'm talking to you Robin Thicke in Blurred Lines!) as accessories, but are quick to judge women who... use themselves.

Or as Lily Allen puts it, "it's hard out here for a b$#*&!"

Gender inequalities aside... here's to fans of Miley including Bastille (who perform a decidedly "turnt up" version of We Can't Stop) and Sarah Blackwood, of Walk off the Earth fame, who delivers a a hauntingly beautiful version of Wrecking Ball with her equally talented friends.