Christmas At The Bristowe-Turnerssesses

A photo essay thusfar...

Categories: Family

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The Book Meme

My first meme tag! Ahh!

The Redhead tagged me for this book meme: Grab the book nearest you. Turn to page 123. Go down to the fifth line. Type out the next three sentences.

Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader
From the essay, "Jello Biafra Is No Cretin"
'The question is, how many of these did we ever want or need beyond keeping certain winos out of the gutter by sticking 'em up on stages with guitars in their hands and letting them bang and yowl way to their hearts' content. I think that the true musical originality and importance of the DKs [Dead Kennedys] can be deduced from the conversation among four of their fans in the lobby on the way out, wherein they absolutely could not figure out whether the band had done one of their favourite DK anthems or not. Then there is the matter of politics.'

I enjoy the cred this book might reflect upon my person, but alas it would be second-hand glam. In fact the Lester Bangs Reader is Turner's book, perched on the basement toilet here across from my temporary office quarters - 'tis the season to be ousted from your regularly-scheduled office by your in-laws, hence the basement office digs. (Happily "ousted", of course! Three cheers for John & Margo, visiting for Christmas, the second year in a row!) That said, I read cool books too, just not many about rock & roll. I leave that to DJ Turner.

I tag Thaba, and John Johnston, and Miss Viki.

Categories: Friends

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Swerve Eats & Drinks

Today Swerve has introduced a re-launch of the magazine, which means waaaaaayyyy (!) better paper and a larger book, but it also marks the start of the Turner-Koentges-Bristowe collaboration on a new column called Swerve Eats/Swerve Drinks. Turner writes the biweekly eats installment, Koentges writes the biweekly drinks installment, and Bristowe takes the photos for both. This week is Turner's first column, his "manifesto of eating", and features a fisheye shot from a fabulous Ekkamai beef soup place in Bangkok that Phet took us to one day. On the weeks that each boy isn't doing the column, they do a brief Q&A with someone in their field of purview. This week Koentges downed some pints with Zak Pashak, the owner of Calgary's music scene mecca, Broken City. I did the photo shoot last week at Zak's house, and he was game to climb back into bed to have his photo taken amongst his blankets and pillows.

Get out there and buy today's Herald and peruse the magazine for yourself! Hoorah!



That's our Turney in the black square headshot on the left. An uncropped version of the soup lady photo can be seen here.



Now, this is the Q&A part of the section. This week it's Koentges' 'Drinks' Q&A with Broken City's Zak Pashak.




I liked Zak lots and lots. He was easy to work with, interested in photography, and willing to jump back in bed for the photo shoot featuring him all tucked in under the covers. I was glad the art wizards at Swerve decided to go with this photo - I thought Zak looked just like the young hipster genius he is -- a guy who gets to bed late every night and probably carries a pretty serious sleep debt most of the time, but a guy whose brain is always scheming for the greater good, even in bed.

p.s. I just switched to Photoshop from ages upon ages surviving simply on Microsoft Picture Manager. I haven't got the hang of compressing & resizing the photos just yet... please bear with us during these technical difficulties.

Categories: Work work work

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Gar! Gar! Gar!

It's the first free moment I've had in weeks, so I was checking out the features on my 'new' computer, one of which is called "Photo Booth". I LOVE THIS THING.

Hee!

Categories: Ash

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Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review

Week... um... 80? Something like that?



Taken on the Coolpix.

Categories: Sloane

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Hairy Mama

All my life, I've had a lot of hair. I've never had to worry about my hair the way many women (most women?) worry about their hair. I don't dye it or primp it or frost it or cut it or mess around with highlights/hot oil/colouring. The stuff that grows out of my head is thick and shiny and a nice hue (and still mostly brown), and it's pretty cooperative as hair goes.

I went through the whole hairspray-the-hell-out-of-your-bangs phase in junior high of course, and I ill-advisedly doused my head in peroxide one summer (result: orange) but once I had that out of my system me and the hair arrived at a good place. During university I cut my own hair, using pinking shears and a rather haphazard approach which involved hunting around for split ends and chopping them off. To the ongoing horror of friends who staked their egos in their hairdos, I often had mismatched lengths and pieces hanging every which way. Now that I'm older I do get my hair cut "properly" every 8 or 10 months. I sit in the chair and say, "cut off anything that's dead, even if I lose length. And please layer it a bit". I condition it with a fancy Redken product that comes in a gold-ish bottle, and I rarely, if ever, use a blowdrier. And through this rigorous regimen of upkeep... voila, the hair abides.

Having a lot of hair, it's logical that a lot of hair falls out. And my hair being long, the hair falling out is... also long. Most people lose hair to their brush on a regular basis, and everybody finds stray hairs periodically, stuck to clothing and sprinked across the bathroom floor. But me, I lose pounds of hair. Always have, everywhere. Back in high school my best friend Margaret used to find my hair all over the place, even in her house - she'd seemingly carry it home from school on her clothes and it would end up in her room even if I hadn't been over in months. I loved her "Aaaaaughhh!" yell and subsequent getitoff!getitoff! flail when she'd find one of my hairs in her pencil case or in her backpack. (Margaret's hair was, I should add, blonde and quite short in high school. There was no mistaking my random hairs for hers.) There was really nothing I could do about it - I brushed my hair morning and night, I mostly wore it tied up. That some of the hair would flee my head and end up in other people's books and lockers was simply beyond my control. I could live with the situation knowing that any hair of mine that people found on their person was, at least, clean.

When Mum and Mike were last visiting here on Spiller Road, I was petting their new puppy Beau and commented on the shedding. How, when Pony left us, one of the actually nice things was that we didn't have to deal with dog hair all over the place anymore. Then Val pipes up, "Dogs? You think DOGS shed? I'll tell you that YOU shed, my dear. Worse than any dog! Every time you come to my house I spend the next week picking your hair off my clothing and vaccuming it out of the rug! ...You should talk. Dogs! Bah!" And, yeah, she's right.

Cleaning up my own hair is part of my everyday routine. I don't really think about it much anymore. I find hairballs under the bed and in corners, and not just a few times have I had to take apart bathroom drains to fix a clog caused by my hair. And due to the sheer volume, inevitably I miss a lot of it, so if you come to my house even 12 hours after I've vaccumed and you drop something on the floor, I guarantee it'll come back up covered in my hair. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. I can't keep the house hair-free - I wouldn't be able to hold down a job, and I wouldn't sleep. God has granted me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, in this case.

Now, a few weeks ago, Sloane started noticing my free-range hair. She'd seen it before, on the floor and stuck to her clothes, but it's started to actually bother her recently when she finds my hair wrapped around her fingers or clinging to her shirt. We shower together in the mornings: she sits on the floor pouring water between cups and playing with her model hippopotamus, and I stand above. Inevitably I have soap in my face when my hair makes its first attack and I hear the Uuuuuuh! UUUUUUUUGHHHH! and the sounds of Sloane flinging her hands around, trying to shake off strands of my hair stuck to her wet skin.

I should mention that it doesn't look like Sloane has inherited my hair. Hers is a bit curly at the back, but otherwise it's blonde and wispy, tangly, and unfamiliar. Brucio and I look at her hair and we roll our eyes: Obviously not Bristowe hair. 

So it falls to me instead to teach Sloane to chill out about my hair, since it's a fact of life - my life, and the life of anyone who spends any time anywhere near me - that my hair is going to be around, waiting to pounce. We can't have her freaking out on a thrice-daily basis when my non-attached hair floats onto her toys or lap. We've started teaching her: That's Mama's haaaaaaair. She says it back to us: Ah-Mama haaaaaaair! I show her how to stick it to the shower curtain (for post-shower collection and removal). I show her how to ball it up between her hands and roll it into a little knot, to throw away. I always put a big smile on my face and lift the hair off her clothes and gently drop it to the floor, watching it fall. Because that's the way it is. I'm not shaving my head, and so we all have to live with the hair - even Sloaner.

Categories: Ash | House | Sloane

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No Shirt No Shoes No Problem!

We, and by we I mean "me & Sloane", spend a lot of time naked. In the house, I mean. I like to tell people that I grew up in a nudist colony, though that's not strictly true. My dad was mainly clothed. The rest of us, enh. We ran around starkers. There are many amusing stories featuring this aspect of an upbringing in the Calgary Bristowe household, my favourite being The First Day Of School In 1990. I won't completely humiliate my brother by going into elaborate detail, but it involved a race to see who would get the first shower. I lost because I was laughing too hard. That's all I'll say.

Anyhoo, the tradition lives on, here at Chez Bristowe Turner. Which is to say, we're a nudist colony, but Turner is generally clothed. He doesn't like to prance around with us. I blame it on his Catholic upbringing. He's the one always nervously glancing to see if anyone is coming up the walk when Sloane and I are running around like idiots with no clothes. He's like the camp counsellor at Nekkidlaand (that's the name of our house when we're naked, inside). I should get him a sun hat and a whistle on a lanyard for xmas: hmmmm - note to self.

When we started the "bath before bed" tradition when Sloane was a few months old, I'd always give her some warning by calling out: "Bath-time for bay-beeeees!" and then, when the clothes start coming off, it's all, "Naaaaaaaaaaakeeeeddddd bay-beeeeeee! Naked baaaaay-bee!" We really celebrate being naked around here - strutting around, grinning, running in circles in the kitchen. And I was always very pleased with this endowment from how I was raised. You might have a big ass or tiny boobs or a bent nose or whatever, but it was always A-OK to waltz around in the nude if the mood struck.

As such I grew up thinking nudity wasn't a big deal. I'm not one of those, "Turn your back whilst I change my shirt" types. Meh. I just pull it off and change in public. Turner used to go, "Hey! Somebody might be watching!" To him, and to you, I'd say - C'mon, who really gives a crap? Do I know those people? Am I ever going to see these people again? Not a chance. Everyone's naked under their clothes. Big whup.

That's not to say I'm an exhibitionist. No. No no no. You will never be watching one of those skanky Girls Gone Wild videos and spy Ashley K. Bristowe on the shoulders of some drunken Calgary Flames fan, taking my shirt off. N. O. I take reasonable measures not to stand in full view of our livingroom picture window when I'm just out of the shower. I'm not out to titilate the general public, not in the slightest. That's for people with better pole-dancing abilities than moi. But I most certainly do stand by the notion that if it's my house, I'm gunna be naked a good percentage of the time (when there's no guests staying over), and if a fiddle song comes on, well, it's time to dance, naked or no. And Sloane agrees with me. (Turner, for his part, goes downstairs to work and leaves us to it.)

Anyway, Brucio was over the other day, and it was time for Sloane's bath, and he offered to bathe her now that she doesn't need someone sitting right in the tub, with her. So we were undressing her and as soon as she was naked, off she went for a few run-around laps of the livingroom. And as she took to her heels Brucio started to whistle this familiar snippet. It's impossible to render the tone and detail of whistling in words, so I won't even attempt it. But as he was whistling at Sloane's departing bummy backside, running away down the hall, I involuntarily began to smile. And the smile got bigger and bigger. And I turned to Turner, absolutely BEAMING. And he's all, "Whut? Whut is it? What's that?" and I was like, "That's... that whistle-tune my dad is doing... it's the theme song to 'naked kid running through the house'. I haven't heard that in YEARS!!"

And Brucio started to smile, and I kept smiling, and as Sloaner rounded the corner, heading into the next turn, I saw her grinning too. Turner rolled his eyes, but I bet he's working on his own "the rest of the family is naked" theme music now, down in the basement. Because obviously every family needs some in-house nudity dj-ing, probably best done by the guy in clothes.
 

Categories: Family | House | Sloane | Turner

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The Canada Council Application

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of being grant-seekers in the arts, let me tell you all about it in a word: hell.

No, not really. But it's a damn sight more difficult than "easy". I write lots of grant applications, but the Canada Council ones always carry the extra anxiety. First off, they're the big money. And furthermore, if you've got a CC grant on your resume, you're pretty golden for the next few years in terms of applying to other funders. Everyone likes to see that Canada Council stamp of approval. So there's extra pressure to win.

I should mention that not necessarily everything Canada Council funds is 'good' (but that's just, like, my opinion, man), or that all good artists are funded by the Canada Council. Turner was turned down on his first CC application back in 2002, even though he'd won 7 National Magazine Awards and was in the process of negotiating his Planet Simpson book deal. We're waiting to hear on this year's application - c'mon, Canada Council! Sloaner needs a new pair of... everything! Canada Council, hear our prayer.

On Friday, I applied to Canada Council for the first time, in the category of Visual Arts - Photography. There are 160 grants that go out in this category, which also includes painting, printmaking, etc. I think they receive application numbers in the many thousands. I am not "art school" trained, so I don't fit the typical applicant photographer profile. One of the questions was, "To which aesthetic or cultural tradition does your work belong?" I answered, "Um, I am self-taught and work alone, so I really don't have a fancy answer for you... maybe I'll have a good answer for you next year, if you fund me?"

It's really killer to pick which photos will go in to represent you. You can only send 15. The project I proposed for funding involves energy-efficient housing and other forms of 'alternative' building techniques in Ontario & BC, and the people who build and work in these houses. So I had to send in some architecture and sustainability stuff. But you also have to demonstrate your range, I think. And you have to make sure they perceive you as sufficiently "arty" or damned if you'll squeeze even a drop of cash from that crown corp. So picking the final fifteen is a challenge, to be sure.

I've put my shortlist and finalists here - peruse at will.

Categories: Ash | Work work work

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Mr. Vicious Goes To The Cat Show

Well, I was thrilled when Shelley over at Swerve said she'd take my cat show story. I'd been obsessed with the idea of taking Rooney to compete at the Southern Alberta Cat Fancier's fall cat show for a few months, and wanted to find some way to fund it. (Attending a cat show as a participant/competitor/exhibitor is not a cheap pastime!) Initially I thought Rooney, my wee household purebred Abyssinian, might win a ribbon or two that we could hang in the back hallway. But when he hit the first ring it was clear that things were going to go a bit differently than I'd planned. Basically, he went insane and attacked everyone - me, the judges, and the head of the international cat fancier's association. And he earned himself a nickname among the other competitors: Mr. Vicious.

And that's what made the story.

I won't lie to you - I'm floored: a six-page feature, a cover article plus a teaser on the Calgary Herald's front newspaper banner! Sixteen photos total, in the feature and scattered through the rest of the issue, all shot by me. And I daresay that you'll laugh at the story. Yes, I'm predicting that you'll chuckle at my little tale. It's funny.



First page of the article: Rooney looking piiiiiiiiiiissssed off.



One of the photo pages - the cat jewelery and other scenes.

The Swerviettes did an absolutely inspired and spectacular job of this issue - there are dozen tiny details that were carefully handled and finessed. The editing of my piece, done by Executive Editor Jacquie Moore, was marvellous. A nuanced hand, she is a writer's editor, the best kind. My huge thanks for taking a piece I thought was finished and making it even better! Bundle of thanks!

Swerve comes free in the Friday Calgary Herald - and next week marks the start of the Ashley-Turner-Koentges collaboration on the weekly Eats & Drinks columns... more info to follow. But for now: chase down those covers with the orange cat licking his chops!


Full text below:

Okay, I admit it. I thought our cat had a shot at winning the big ribbon at Calgary's fall cat show. I thought he was maybe even a contender for first prize. I wasn't at all prepared for the disqualifications, and I certainly didn't think he'd attach me -- or the head of The International Cat Association. None of it went according to plan, not in the slightest. But let me explain.

A year ago we acquired a purebred Abyssinian kitten, and named him Rooney. He's a friendly little imp who shamelessly helps himslef to my morning granola, and he's a fanaticaly fan of fetch played with tossed paper clips. But most of all, he's gorgeous. Giant amber eyes and huge bat-like ears. Plus, the Abyssinian coat is "ticked", which means that Rooney actually seems to glow from within, as though he's irridescent. The kind of cat you'd see and think to yourself, "I bet he could win first prize in a cat show that handsome devil."

I heard about the fall Southern Alberta Cat Fanciers' Show over the internet and was immediately intrigued. Judges would be coming from across Canada, the US, and Europe; upwards of 125 cats would compete. Certainly Rooney would prove fancier than 124 of them. And wouldn't a nice "Top Cat" laurel look perfect hangin in the back hall above the litter box?

So, at a much-too-early hour on the last Saturday in October, I unceremoniously stuffed a befuddled and half-asleep Rooney face-first into his carrier and zoomed off to the Ogden Legion Hall -- our home for the next two days of competition at the fall championship cat show.

A cat-show neophyte, I arrived with some preconceived notions. Would it be a bunch of eccentric cat-ladies feeding their babies crushed caviar with infant spoons? Or would it be mean and brutally competitive – a hierarchy of bitchy breeders elbowing out the competition with poisoned mouse toys? I just didn’t know. And it didn't matter, for in the days and weeks leading up to the show I had but one simple, lingering fantasy that involved Rooney collecting a bevy of fancy ribbons. How wrong I was.

We arrived at the hall around 7:45am and I found our assigned “bench” in the way-back far corner, next to the fire exit and the kitty litter station. After setting up his cage I put a now hissing and decidedly cranky Rooney inside and taped on the sign I'd printed that morning: “My name is Rooney Roo! I am a red male Abyssinian. This is my first show!” Though ridiculously naïve in retrospect, the sign gave me a strange sense of satisfaction at the time. I’d gotten the idea from a website discussing ‘show hall etiquette’ which suggested preparing a sign because otherwise you’d spend half the time explaining your cat’s breed to the general public attending the show. I also wanted the competition to know Rooney was a newbie, an innocent first-timer, which would, of course, make the pile of ribbons he'd garner that much more enviable.

From our vantage point near the kitty litter we could see the whole exhibitor’s hall laid out before us: rows and rows of tables topped with identical wire cages. Some of the seriously serious breeders buy up whole rows of benching and have photos and new kittens on display in elaborate customized fabric benching ‘condos’ with zip-fronts and fuzzy beds. Circling the outer hall walls are the rings where the actual judging part of the show goes down: tables with raised judging platforms, surrounded by unadorned judging cages and overseen by small teams of earnest young people responsible for the vital clean-up after each round. And at each end of the hall, the vendors: cat toys, cat jewelry, enormous scratching-post-trees, cat carrier bags, cat picture fames, cat blankets, cat mugs, cat pins, cat hats, cat pencil jars, cat slippers, and pretty much anything else you could possibly festoon with the image of a cat. As well, ther ewas a booth advertising cat cremation & funeral services. for planning types. Indeed, at five bucks for a daylong gander at this subculture spectacle, I'd say it was the cheapest wholesome entertainment in town.

By 9:30am the whole hall was a flurry of activity. Judging began in the rings, and the room echoed with cryptic announcements from the PA system. Exhibitors walked their cats back and forth through the rows, or elaborately wiped them down with special gloves and combs designed to eliminate static. I did my best to fit in, pulling out a grooming brush (used not even half a dozen times) and went to work on Rooney’s luxurious ginger coat. The nice lady running the nearby raffle table told me I would have to take off the cat’s collar for the judging, so I did – revealing a bald ring around his neck that wouldn’t brush out.

While we waited for Rooney's turn in the ring, I took a tour of the hall myself, sneaking covetous glances at the giant wall displays of satiny, shiny, riotously coloured ribbons. They numbered for places all the way down to “Tenth Best”. Surely, I figured, Rooney was at least tenth best in some Byzantine category or other. Most of the time, though, I sat there beside the cage, periodically flipping through the workbook-like “show guide”, which seemed to be a collection of pages full of acronyms and other jibberish, incomprehensible aside from the advertisements. I was a bit confused about how to know where and when to take Rooney for judging, though I’d been told that I should just listen to the PA for an announcement. I missed it, of course. The raffle table lady must have been keeping a watchful eye because suddenly she came running down the aisle, waving and pointing at the ceiling. “That’s you! That’s you!” Instantly nervous, I yanked open the cage, pulled out my cat, and went shuffling down toward Ring 4.

Rooney hissed and struggled as I jammed him into the appointed cage at the judging ring – a mild portent, as it turned out, of the storm to come. I wasn’t completely surprised – cats don’t think much of each other when they’re strangers, and now he was under unfriendly flickery fluorescents and within easy earshot of his rivals. As I settled into a chair to watch the judging, Rooney and a cat in a nearby cage faced off with a big round of back-arching, tail-puffing, and yowling. And then suddenly it was Rooney’s turn.

As the judge approached his cage, Rooney spat and moaned, and when she tried to pick him up he swiped at her. Unfazed, the judge asked for his owner to put him on the judging bench. I leapt up and went to his cage, and reached in to get my cat. That’s when the kitty litter hit the fan. It happened so quickly I can’t recall all the details, but I remember that it sounded just like a cartoon cat fight, complete with bouncing-off-the-inside-of-the-cage reverberations and caterwauling screeches.

Welts rising up my forearm and bite marks on my fingers, I scanned the crowd. The people I’d met that morning were politely averting their eyes from our disgrace. To buy time, I pulled down my sweater sleeve and pondered my next move. I was pretty sure that most prize cats don’t attack their owners, in the ring, right in front of the judges. Visions of Rooney winning ‘Best In Show’ were definitely fading… though somewhere north of “Tenth Best” still seemed within reach.

The judge saw through my thin veneer of calm immediately. "You didn’t expect this, did you?" she said in a broad Texas drawl. I shook my head, at a loss for words. Rooney was doing that deep-pitched feline warning growl, tail swishing, eyeing me from a corner of the cage. "It’s his first show?” she asked. I nodded. She leaned in. "Now, don’t you let him win," she warned, voice low, pointing at Rooney. "This is a control game for him. I’ll judge him if you get him to the table. But don’t you let him think he can just have a temper tantrum and that’s it. If you give in, he wins. You’re the boss. You show him."

I turned back to the cage to find Rooney clawing at the ceiling bars, hissing. Where was the lovely cat that follows me around the house, the affectionate little bug who watches over my workday from the windowsill? He’d been replaced by a crazed, judge-hating lunatic. I didn’t know this cat.

I grabbed at Rooney a few more times, trying to get him back in the game. I wanted that ribbon. Even tenth place would be – swipe –  just – bite – fine at this point - screech, backflip out of my grasp. After a minute or two it was clear that we were holding up the competition and that Rooney was definitely not going to allow himself to be judged. "I’m going to withdraw him from this ring," I told the officiants, and our judge nodded.  I made a blind final grab with both hands at once and managed to get Rooney by the face and tail. With that hold I yanked him out of the judging cage, pinned his head under my armpit, and hurried back to our bench with whatever phlegmy furball of dignity he and I had left. I was suddenly very glad to be exiled at the far end of the show hall, beyond the curious gazes of the more experienced exhibitors.

Initially, it seemed to mark the end of our brief cat show career. In the melée Rooney had somehow torn a significant chunk of fur from his own head. He’d also split a nail. And now he was stalking around the cage, hissing disgustedly at fifteen second intervals and clawing at any attempt I made to pet him. I spent about ten minutes wondering what to do with the rest of my weekend, now that my whole flawless plan of winning the big show prize was clearly shot all to hell.

However, to my enormous surprise, however, it soon became clear that I wasn’t expected to leave. Even better, people started coming by the bench to give advice and buck me up. It happens to everyone, they said. Some cats just take time to get used to the overlit pressures of the show hall, they said. Many of them suggested that I walk Rooney through the aisles and past the judges a few times before the next ring, to give him a chance to get used to the smells of the other cats. The next ring? Like I was going to go through all that again? On the other hand, I’d paid the show’s steep entry fee, and there were still two days and fifteen rings to go.

Halfway around the hall on our first "orientation" tour, I started hearing greetings from the crowd: "Hello Mr. Vicious! How are you today, sir?" and "Oooh, lookout! It’s Mr. Vicious! Get ’im, tiger! Grrr!"

People were coming up to greet Rooney directly, not looking at me at all. With just one appearance, Rooney had managed to earn himself a nickname and something of a following among the other competitors. By the time we got back to the bench, I was laughing to myself and willing to give him another shot.

After several hours of constant petting, playing, and other forms of bribery, Rooney chilled out a bit. He was immediately disqualified from four of the next seven rings for hissing and scratching at the adjudicators, but he did win first in his division in every ring that didn’t disqualify him. Granted, he was the only cat in his division (Abyssinian “alters” – which means he’s been ‘fixed’, i.e. doesn’t have his… ‘equipment’ anymore). Unfortunately, it’s just a designation that doesn’t come with any take-home prizes.

Still, Mr. Vicious seemed to be winning an unofficial popularity contest. He was the punk-rock demon of the show, hissing and sputtering while the fêted champions lazed around placidly, gently pawing at feather toys and allowing themselves to be manhandled by the judges. By the time of his final ring show mid-day on Sunday, people were coming to see Rooney the way crowds used to flock to see the Sex Pistols, wondering what stunt he’d pull this time on the judging table. And let it not be said that Mr. Vicious let his fans down.

But Rooney’s last ring started out as one of his best. The calm at the eye of the storm, as it turned out. I’d taken to scruffing him (clutching the neck fur below the cat’s ears) as a control measure, and bringing him to the ring just in time to be put directly on the judging table. As I set him down in front of the benevolent Texan judge for this final contest, she also scruffed him and began telling the assembled gawkers what a long way Rooney had come since his first ring the day before. I allowed myself a moment of what turned out to be hubristic pride in my troubled boy. Things seemed to be going just fine, I thought. Finally.

And that’s when Rooney made his move. I was taking photos like a proud parent as it went down: he flopped on his back, working himself into position for his final volley of spite. The judge managed to maintain her hold on him for a few more seconds as my cat rolled around figuring out the best angle for his finale. But then Rooney exploded, becoming what can only be described as a flying ball of fur, teeth and claws. I learned later that our nice Texan lady judge is the head of TICA, the international cat fancier’s association. When my cat decided it was finally time to go completely batshit insane, he did so by attacking the highest ranking official in the cat fancier’s world, and with his whole fan club looking on.

To my horror, Rooney managed to fight his way out of the judge’s expert grip, and escaped down onto the floor. Immediately, calls went up throughout the crowd: "CAT OUT: SHUT THE DOORS!", from which I took a nanosecond's consolation that it wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened. As I scrambled around the tables and under the displays in pursuit, I heard the fire doors slamming closed one after another at the other end of the hall. Judging came to a halt in the other rings and the whole show went quiet, hundreds of people now waiting on the recapture of my cat. A nice Singapura breeder from Lethbridge came out of the crowd to offer to hold my camera equipment so I could better throw myself around corners trying to nab Rooney in mid-escape. Others were scurrying around, calling out updates: "He went this way! He’s under there!" - until the PA boomed, "PLEASE LET THE OWNER OF THE CAT CATCH THE CAT." Finally, over near one of the cages belonging to a particularly snobby Russian breeder, I managed to grab hold of Rooney’s hind legs from between some chairs and haul him into my arms. He was not pleased. But by then, neither was I. Not. At. All.

"Thank you, I’ve got him!" I announced to no one in particular. Some cheers went up from his fans back at the ring at the far end of the room, but I knew it was time to thank the crowd, turn out the lights and head home. Owner and pet marched back to our bench, our disgrace now complete.

After retrieving my camera, I went around to the remaining rings, striking Rooney’s name from the rest of the judging rosters. "You’re wise to know when to call it quits," said one judge who’d seen the whole great escape sideshow. I made a special effort to thank the judge from Texas, who’d been exceedingly kind and understanding about everything. "Some cats just hate the cat show,” she said, rubbing a fresh welt on her wrist. "Yours, I’m afraid, is one of them….But he’s a good pet, isn’t he?" I nodded. "Sure he is," she continued. "You take him home and love him, y’hear? He’s a good one, got lots of fight in him." She paused. "But don’t show him anymore." I promised I wouldn’t.

And with that, I packed up our stuff, dumped out the kitty litter, and took Rooney on a final tour to say goodbye to his fans. And then we hightailed it out of there, nary a ribbon on the cat carrier, and never again to darken the door of the competitive cat show world with the ominous shadow of… Mr. Vicious.

Categories: Ash | Calgary | Rooney | Work work work

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This Month's 2 Mag

Hurray hurray! After long last, it has arrived!

Waaaaaaayyyy back in... May? June? Turner and I wrote up a list of "lessons learned" when taking your baby overseas. I'd shot approximately 6 zillion photos while we were in Asia at the beginning of the year, so we came with the whole package: wisdom and illustrating images. Above we see the cover - ours is the "Baby On Board" feature.



That's our Sloaner and Turnbuckle, yukking it up on the beach in Tamil Nadu back in February. Turner isn't sure whether the open button on his shirt is giving off the "casual dad on the beach" look, or if it just radiates "slob". You may weigh in with your opinion in the comments, if you like.



The next pages feature a buncha photos from our Asia travels. We gave them about 45 shortlist photos to choose from, and interestingly enough all but one of the art director's choices were pictures taken within 48 hours of one another, and all in the same little town in south India (Mamallapuram, ftr).

But that other photo? It's the one near the fold on the left side of the page:



Who's that guy holding our daughter? ...Why, it's Uncle Phet!

The original photo is here - as you can see, Ji Hong is also in this photograph. Alas, they cut him out! Fame and fortu- wait, just fame - is DENIED! Boo!

But you know, the more we pondered the spread, the more it started to seem like they used this photo to make it look like Sloane was being bounced on the knee of some local dude in Bangkok. We'd explained to the editors that we were living with friends and this picture is even titled, "Beef place with Phet and Ji". ...It just seems funny to have someone we know so well in a lineup of photos meant to illustrate being very far away from home, and seeing Phet there, stripped of our shared context. Sloaner herself took one look at this photo and exclaimed, "It's-a Uncle Phet!" Yes, dear!

Enter Turner with the voice over:
In January of the year 2006 we flew to Bangkok. There we met a man named... Phet. His English was very understandable. When we asked where he was from, he would say only: "Pape". He and his family took us in and let us live in the guest suite of their meagre 3000 sq.ft. flat for ten weeks... On Saturdays we would walk to the end of his street to eat a thin gruel of noodles, fish, vegetables, spices, shrimp, pork, and three kinds of rice, with iced coffee on the side... He taught our daughter to walk. ...This is the only photograph of him we could find.

2 Magazine is available at most big newsstand shops, by subscription via their website, or if you've created a wedding registry at The Bay, it'll come to you, free, in the mail.

Categories: Asia 2006 | Family | Work work work

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Cousin Jessica's New Man

Okay, I'll go ahead and say it: I'm coming out officially in favour of this new guy, "Brent".

He's apparently Jessica's "boyfriend".

People, I've known my cousin Jessica a looooooooong time (whole life - 11 mo = the elapsed time frame) and I'll tell you that I've only heard her utter "the b-word" a few times. A number of years ago she swore off, in my presence, all men. Sure, she dated, took home the random guy from the ska band in the Townships, and went to dinner with the "How YOU doin'" dude from Long Island. Etcetera.

But to really like somebody? Nah. Jess had it all figured out and what she'd figured was this: fuhgetaboutit.

And I'll tell you whut, my cousin Jess can eat you alive. This is the woman who wore a "SLUT" tiara to my wedding (with my unreserved blessing!) and braved the mosh pit of judgement from the uninitiated with nothing less than total teflon good cheer.

Jess and I, aged 6 and 7 respectively, thought in the summer of 1981 that the funniest thing in the world was "touching tongues" - sticking out our tongues, pushing them together, and then screeching at the "ooky" feeling. Later that same summer she taught me how to get through an electric farm fence (to steal raspberries and mint across the road in Ayer's Cliff, QC) by stepping cleanly on the lower wire while ducking under the higher one.

In 1994 I visited Jess in Victoria, where she was living on a Reserve with pit bulls in the yard and a crazily expensive vacuum cleaner from a travelling salesman sitting in the livingroom, unused.

What I'm telling you is that my Jess has been 'round the block and she knows shit from shit. So when she said that was it, no more boys - I believed her. It was final.

Frankly, I pity the unprepared fool who attempts to date any of the Bristowe women whilst lacking a) the BIGGIE-sized sense of humour, b) a bend-able but present backbone, c) a love & respect for Family (capital letters, note), and d) a willingness to give regular backrubs. Alas, our Jess was going to burn any idiot at the stake who even leered in her direction without a full command of the DSM V and its nuanced oversights.

Aha, but then came along Mr. Brent.

I present to you Exhibit A, a photograph taken in my very own livingroom:

Notice the hand-on-knee, all caring-like. And dig the Jessica in this photo! Calm! Cool! Collected! A completely calm, cool, collected version of my cousin Jessica the world has never seen! I bring you photographic evidence!

Also - please notice my cousin's dreadful hair roots situation as demonstrated in the above photo. The girl has brown hair, in case you haven't already guessed. She looks great in brown hair. "Natural", even. But you'll notice that at some point in the past she coloured her hair a sort of light-brown/blonde-'ish' colour for some reason - that's her business. It's been a while in any case, judging from the roots. The exact point at which she decided not to get her roots re-done? I would hazard a guess that it coincides quite nicely with the nary-a-few-months-old relationship with Mr. Brent. Certainly not a coincidence, I'd say. A woman who is comfortable with her natural hair roots growing in is a woman in love, a wise friend has always said. (I'm making that up, but I'm okay with lying to suit my point - it's my website, after all.)

Here I also present Exhibit B, the message Mr. Brent put on Leo's Care Pages website:

Thanks Guys
Brent Lake  November 30, 2006 at 12:17 AM EST

I kinda' thought that this was as good a forum as anywhere to extend my gratitude to everyone I met in Calgary. When I met Jess, I found a really down-to-earth, brilliant woman that, the more I knew her, the deeper her character became. As I found out in Calgary, she wasn't the only one. Bruce, you extended your hospitality and your support to Jess & I without hesitation. You even drove in -40 temperatures to catch our flight. Bruce, I can't thank you enough. Ashley, Turner & Sloane: The most adorable and welcoming family ever. You guys were so cool and fun to hang out with. And little Sloaner will take your mind off of any troubles you're having. Cutest kid, EVER! She taught me some calculus...
Thanks you guys. We'll see you again, soon.

To Leo,
This wasn't how I planned to meet you. I love & cherish your daughter more than anything in this world. Your little girl has done so much behind the scenes, both in Calgary and here in Vancouver. You should be so proud of her. She is truly amazing.

I look forward to sittin' on the porch and us gettin' to know each other a lot better. Get well real soon, ya here.

***

We can forgive him the "ya here" part, right? Because I tell you, as far as I can see it's the first mistake he's made. And I tell you, I like a man who loves my cousin like this man loves my cousin.

Don't youses dare elope, I want the party.

Categories: Family

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Update on Leo

For those of you who know Uncle Leo (or are just interested, anyway), you can check out http://www.carepages.com and search "Leo Bristowe" - we've set up a page for him there where we post updates and photos, and friends & family can insert messages. (I would give you the direct link but to view the page you have to sign in. It's free, and they don't seem to send you any spam, so if you're interested -- go ahead and sign up.) Brucio religiously prints everything out daily and takes it to Uncle Leo for his perusal, and Leo's many many MANY friends and fans from around the world have sent their greetings. It's been awe-inspiring to see the outpouring of love and concern. You too can send Uncle Leo a message -- don't hesitate, every brain cell counts, so try your best to trigger a reaction.

I'm not going to update Leo's condition on a regular basis here. For now, suffice to say that he's doing 'much better' from a medical point of view. I'm not going to lie to you - he's paralysed down his right side, and he can't speak very clearly. The risk of another stroke is ever-present, because the first one was a "bleed" (rather than a clotting, which can be controlled with drugs). But he's clearly "in there" - he knows who we are, he knows what has happened, he's frustrated, and he's fighting hard. The nurses are optimistic. He won't be running any 4-minute miles... uh, ever - but they seem very satisfied with his progress and we even have a mole in the blood lab, an old friend of Leo's from Montreal who "happens" (wink-wink, nudge-nudge) to have full access. Go Marjie!

I'm not going to post any photos of Leo - I know he'd hate me taking pictures of him in this condition. But he looks the same -- just horizontal, and no goatee/beard anymore (the nurses shaved it off!). Otherwise, sameo sameo.

Keep going Leo! We're rooting for you!

Early bits of the photo collage, and messages from Uncle Anders and other visitors...

Part one of the windowsill flower collection...

That's Brent's arm helping me present Part two of Leo's windowsill flower collection.

Categories: Family

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