There's a Starman Waiting in the Sky

Time May Change Me by Helen Green

I got up this morning to have coffee with Sarah before she left for work at the "crack of stupid", as our friend Ruth Cheesman would say. It's a new routine, begun on the advice of the psychiatrist – Dr. Feldmann – who has been treating me for ADHD. We're experimenting with increasing levels of Vyvanse (an amphetamine – and yes, I do recognize the irony in me needing an "upper" but thanks anyhow) and it seems to finally be having a positive effect on my ability to focus and stick to a task; however, as the good doctor pointed out to me, the medicine is just a tool and the heavy lifting now is left to me to relearn good organizational and goal-oriented skills. So last night I opened up "Google Keep" on my phone and created a long To Do list for the rest of this month. And my first order of business this morning, after seeing Sarah safely off, was to sit down at the computer and create my first new blog post in nearly a year, providing the back story for the January photo in my incredibly successful Connecting with Animals calendar for 2016. 

It's no longer morning. And this isn't that post. That post will have to wait.

Ordinarily I would check my emails and social media first thing in the morning just to be sure I wasn't missing anything of "vital importance" before getting on with my day, but I was so determined not to disappear down that particular rabbit hole today that I skipped Facebook and Twitter and only glanced at my email headers as I grabbed my mug of remaining coffee and began to head down the hall to my desk. I would, therefore, have missed all news of the stunning loss the world suffered overnight, but for one small detail: I subscribe to an email notification service called "Celebrity Death Beeper." I had received an email from them at 2:32 this morning and the header (in my phone's tiny window) said only, "A celebrity death? LEGENDARY ARTIS..." Assuming the recently departed would turn out to be someone I knew of only slightly, but with whom Sarah would be much more familiar, I clicked on the email in order to pass along the news to her so she might look into it on her bus ride. And of course, I couldn't have been more wrong. "LEGENDARY ARTIST DAVID BOWIE DIES AT 69" read the full header, my first "WTF" moment of 2016. With all of the notorious internet death hoaxes which seem to crop up nearly daily, I quickly went online for other, credible sources. I was met with an absolute wall of messages and laments on every single social media platform currently existing. And I sat down on the couch, knowing in that moment that my morning's plans had been irreversibly altered.

David Bowie, who seemed virtually immortal to anyone who actually considered the possibility of his death, was gone. Dead of cancer, with which he had apparently waged a battle for 18 months. 18 bloody months. How in the hell had I not known of this? How does anyone of Bowie's celebrity stature manage to keep that kind of thing a secret for 18 months?? He had released a brand-new album – his 25th – just last Friday. His first video, for the song Lazarus, I had already viewed without even the remotest inkling of its now all-too-clearly deliberate message. David Bowie, dying as suddenly (it seemed) as if he had been killed in an accident, a mere two days after his 69th birthday, which had coincided brilliantly with the release of Blackstar, an album giving no indication that the legendary rocker was even slowing down, let alone at death's door.

The news hit me like a hammer, which I don't really understand. I've certainly been aware of David Bowie since my earliest days of listening to radio. 2001:A Space Odyssey is one of my favourite movies of all time; likewise, I devoured every grain of information about the Apollo moon program in the late '60s. Thus it was only natural that I would take an immediate shine to Space Oddity when it was re-released by Bowie in Canada in 1973, having flown under the radar the first time around in 1969. But for the rest of the '70s, I really had very little exposure to his music other than the AM hits such as Fame and Golden Years, which was a shame because I really didn't care very much for those songs (and still don't). Being a bit of an unsophisticated music aficionado in my formative years, I stayed away from Glam Rock and Prog Rock and Hard Rock and...well, anything that even slightly required a good, hard listen and not just something you could put on in the background and ignore. I suspect this would have been quite different had I gone to a high school where I would have been the "nerdy kid" on the outside; as I attended UTS where we were all the nerdy kids, I didn't need to find solace or refuge or strength in the quirkiness of David Bowie. I vividly recall the one and only visit I made to a classmate's home in Thorncliffe Park in the mid-'70s when he put on Bowie and Genesis and Zappa and just generally made me so uncomfortable that I never returned.

Three events in my life would change how I felt about David Bowie and his music. The first was my meeting Stephe Yorke (one of the owners of Dead Dog Records on Bloor West in Toronto) in second-year university. He broke me out of the box I had been in and forever altered the way I approached all music for the rest of my life. I am forever in his debt for this. The second event was when my friend John Rose and I went to see Christiane F. at a rep theatre in Toronto in the very early '80s. The movie itself is devastatingly dark and disturbing and depressing and just generally an uncomfortable thing to watch....except for the footage of the David Bowie concert the main protagonist attends. I don't know if I was desperate for something, anything to relieve the incredible tension and angst of the film, but I do know that the songs of the soundtrack which played throughout the movie had a very positive effect on me and I rushed out to buy the album the next day (if not actually the very same evening). To this day, the song Heroes holds a very special place in my heart.

And the third event? Well, the third event is when I realized that this gender-bending, shock-producing, misfit chameleon could actually sing. I mean really, really sing.





In the early part of the 1980s, I was beginning to discover the joy of the old Jazz performers and one of my favourites was Nina Simone. One day around this time I had left the television on MuchMusic but wasn't paying attention to it when the above video began to play. It took me a few moments to recognize the tune being played and by the time I looked up, the name of the performer was no longer showing on the screen. I sat there mesmerized, listening to this amazing rendition of one of Simone's fabulous songs and trying to figure out how this person could sound so much like David Bowie and yet could clearly not be David Bowie. When the song was coming to an end and the credits came back up on the screen I was dumbfounded. How could this rock star, this androgynous performance artist with the bizarre costumes and gimmick after gimmick up his sleeve, how on earth could he produce a sound like this? In those days, MuchMusic repeated its programming every three hours (as I recall) so I set up the VCR to record this song in its entirety the next time it would show. I think I might even still have that tape, but I'd imagine it be worn so thin from repeated plays that one could likely see right through it. Of course, I also rushed out and bought the Golden Years compilation album within a day or two. To this day, no Bowie recording – and there have been some monumental performances – has come close to replacing Wild is the Wind as my favourite of his entire repertoire.

But while I now took his immense talent very seriously, I never truly became a "fan". I've loved many of his songs – some obscure, some not – but I only own one of all of his studio albums (sadly, it's Let's Dance) and three compilations: Changesonebowie, the aforementioned Golden Years, and the 2-CD set Singles: 1969-1993, the latter of which I only purchased, truth be told, because it contained a bonus third disc containing the video of Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy from his appearance on the Bing Crosby Christmas special so many years earlier. So why did his loss hit me so hard? I really can't say, other than that it was so sudden, while he was seemingly still so strong and experimental (his final album one final re-invention); and that he had been such a force in every aspect of the entertainment industry for so long it never really occurred to me (nor, apparently, to many others, judging from social media today) that he might one day simply vanish forever. That is to say, vanish as a living being; it's a certainty that he will never vanish entirely until humans disappear from the universe.

And if you doubt the sincerity or veracity of that last sentence, I will let the final words here be those of Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, President of the Pontifical Council for Culture, who tweeted this today:

Ground Control to Major Tom Commencing countdown, engines on Check ignition and may God's love be with you (David Bowie)

— Gianfranco Ravasi (@CardRavasi) January 11, 2016

This Is Not a Blog Post

So it's like this....

I have been fighting depression for a very long time, it seems. I've had a few severe episodes that were worse than the others, to be sure, and one of them cost me much of 2013 and the early days of 2014. All one has to do to confirm this is to look at the number of posts I made in 2012, 2013 and 2014. I made one post all of last year. One. I don't even really know how to react to that.

On Facebook I have been very forthcoming about my struggles and have documented my journey back "into the light" there in some great detail, but I have not been able to do the same thing here, and I know that leaves out a few of you who do not follow me on Facebook. For that, I apologize. In the next few months I will do my best to catch you up on how I got here, if I can figure it out myself.

"Here" is an interesting place, though. For many months last year I was on one long upswing from the bowels of abject despair and, where it once was impossible to see any light, it had become impossible to see any ceiling on my climb. But I think I have reached that ceiling—at least for now—and I don't really know how to react to it.

I started taking Cymbalta early last Spring and it immediately had an overwhelmingly positive effect on me. Everything about my personality changed—not just the most recent depths of depression but paradigm shifts in my core personality itself. My "normal" was new. I was calmer and more focused than I can ever remember being in my entire life (and I have confirmed my beliefs with some long-time friends), leading me to ask, out loud, "Just how freaking long have I been depressed, anyhow??"

On June 23rd of last year, I attended a meeting at the Zoo, for which I had been hand-picked by my Supervisor to represent the entire Volunteer crew in talks with board members and high-ranking Zoo officials. I was able to get it together enough to accept the invitation only because I was on the incredible recovery path that I was on, but I did show up and acquitted myself very well. For the rest of that week, I had a reason to get out of the apartment and interact with society every single day and I took note of that 7-day streak.

I managed to keep it going through the end of last year and it's still intact as I write this. It will reach thirty straight weeks tomorrow when I drive up to Lindsay to visit my Dad. I'm pretty damned proud of that.

But here's what's happening right now.

Sarah is in Kenora, giving her Dad a hand, as he just lost his mother last Thursday. She was 103 (!) years old when she died and I had really thought she was going to be the subject of a blog piece this week, but I have decided to wait until Sarah returns so I can make sure I have all the information about her life as accurately as possible. But while Sarah has been away, I have felt a strange sense of ennui return to my life. I do not feel in imminent danger of it turning into a full-blown depressive episode, but it's not a pleasant sensation nonetheless. I am keeping a very close eye on it indeed and will likely take an anxiety pill today to supplement the Cymbalta. As I type this out, I am sitting in front of my 10,000-lux "S.A.D. lamp" (phototherapy for the dark winter months) and it does seem to be helping a bit. I am also fairly confident my diet in the days since she left has not been a help; I have been doing much of the cooking since we moved into our new place last November, but I have never been one to cook for just myself and I'm ashamed of the kind of crap I have been eating since Thursday.

I have been attending a CBT (Cognitive Behaviour Therapy) group session every Monday morning for the past nine weeks and will continue to do so for another six. My task from the past session's homework was to write at least one blog piece before Monday but for one reason or another I just have not been able to sit still long enough or get my head enough "into the game" to do so, so I thought I would instead try to explain why this is the case. Along those lines, I actually am soon to see a psychiatrist to be assessed for adult ADHD, which I am fairly confident I will turn out to suffer from. Even at my new level of calmness I still can't stop feeling restless and easily bored. In fact, it might be worse than it has been for a while, since the depression masked a lot of feelings of unease and replaced them with helplessness and immobility.

I will return at some point—because I need to sharpen my blogging skills (more on that later)—with new and better posts. I have borrowed a friend's macro lens for my Canon; I am sure there will be some cool photos forthcoming. If not, there are about 18 months' worth in the tank, ready to be shared here. Or I could talk about my calendar success of last year. I have lots and lots to blog about, but for some reason I just couldn't bring myself to do so right now. I simply could not write a "real" blog post.

So I wrote this instead. Hope you're okay with it. We'll talk soon.

Thanks, Jimmy Kimmel.

I've had a chance to digest the squirm-fest that was the Jimmy Kimmel Live! show last night and I've reconsidered my original stated position about the entire event. Now I am happy it happened and Jimmy Kimmel has earned a little of my respect in the process.

It's been clear to most of us up here for quite some time that Rob Ford is mentally challenged in some way. I think he's got a learning disability, but whatever the truth is there is definitely an issue there of some kind. I don't think that's been quite as obvious to the international media, most of whom have come to this story only tangentially and mainly through YouTube. To my mind, Kimmel has likely thought all along that Ford must simply be a brazen, larger-than-life character—a sort that Kimmel himself has probably bumped up against in his own country many times. When he was able to convince Ford to come on the show, I can only imagine he felt confident that Ford knew exactly what the joke was going to be. How could he not, truly, and still be the mayor of the largest city in Canada? It was unthinkable, to Kimmel's mind I am sure, that Ford might not see what was going to happen ahead of time—or at least one of his staffers or family members would advise him against it.

Sweating even before it gets going

But that didn't happen, for reasons we in Toronto are all too familiar with. And Ford showed up looking like he was the best man at a 1985 wedding. And he tossed out t-shirts and magnets and had all his local political talking points in order, because that's all he's ever had going for him in the past four years. But he was not in Toronto and the audience—in person, that is—were not the sheep of our city who still believe everything Ford says because it's on the radio or television. I'd love to have seen the results had there been a poll taken after the show of exactly what percentage of Kimmel's audience last night had even the remotest of clues what "TTC" stands for, for example. No, these were people who had shown up to witness a good stoning and they sure weren't disappointed.


It's never fun to watch a bully—or a group of people "in on the joke"—embarrass and destroy an ill-prepared person. (Think of the movie "Carrie".) It's especially not fun when you know that person being picked on is mentally challenged. But as I watched the show last night, it became pretty clear to me that Ford's low IQ was a surprise to Kimmel; or, if not a surprise outright, then it was probably startling to Kimmel that it had more to do with his shenanigans than any sort of brassy, anti-social, eff-you sort of mindset.

Daughtry sings "The Ballad of Rob Ford" on an earlier show:
how could the Fords not have known how this would end?

What I thought was interesting was the way the host handled it from there. During the video montage segment—clearly meant to be the payoff of this entire show—both Kimmel and his audience were quite obviously uncomfortable with the reaction of Ford himself to the relentless butt-kicking. At the end of each video, Kimmel had a clearly prepared and rehearsed question for Ford but didn't wait for an answer that was so obviously not coming and almost rushed through the segment, I thought. Now, abandoning the segment was not a consideration because Kimmel is not a journalist or a mental health expert; rather, he's in the entertainment business, pure and simple. He was the wise-cracking sidekick on the show "Ben Stein's Money" and co-created "The Man Show". It's not really fair of us to expect him to abandon this gold mine that landed in his lap, but still I felt he very nearly did. He even gave Ford a chance to take all the wind out of his own (Kimmel's) sails in the third part where he gently suggested that Ford might want to seek help for his alcoholism. Had Ford taken that opportunity to show real human contrition and frailty, all the sympathy would have transferred immediately to him and Kimmel would instantly have become the "bad guy". It was a big chance Kimmel was taking, but he took it anyway and I have a lot of new respect for him for doing that.


But, of course, Ford denied, denied, denied and even started to say, it seemed to me, "Maybe YOU'RE perfect, Jimmy" but was quickly cut off by Kimmel.

Two puppets and a host

And you know what? I don't care what the reasons are for Ford being in this situation right now, I was very glad to see him completely ashamed on international television last night, because Kimmel did what Mansbridge et al could not do, and shame on all of those who fell short before now. I'm way past hoping RoFo gets help; I just want him to disappear completely, because Kimmel's other guest was Gonzo the Muppet....and he managed to squeeze in a Ford joke himself. Which led to my favourite tweet of last night:

WHEN GONZO THROWS SHADE AT YOU, EVALUATE YOUR LIFE.
— Heidi Brander (@HeidiBrander) March 4, 2014

Kenora 2013: Wasting No Time

Our "lodgings" in Kenora

When we woke up Saturday morning there was no trace of the bad weather that had plagued us over the second half of our drive. It was sunny and cool and we knew that we were going to be fishing before the clock hit double digits. Lana made us a pretty fantastic breakfast which we ate in the sun room overlooking the street, then we made a quick check of the weather and winds (sunny and calm, according to our sources) and bundled our gear into the car. I had been a little worried about getting my camera and lenses wet, so Lana came up with a Ziploc bag large enough to hold everything in it at once and still close properly. I tucked this precious cargo into a sports bag and off we all went to pick up the boat and (for Sarah and me) our fishing licences. At Sunset Baits, where we took care of the paperwork (and, of course, picked up our minnows), I bought a pair of FroggToggs waterproof pants—a steal at $18.99—and changed into them from the non-waterproof sweatpants I had been wearing. If I had known, as I discovered later on, that my baseball jacket was not even water resistant, I'd likely have bought the whole set. Live and learn, I guess. (Trust me: that jacket will be waterproofed by us very, very soon.) Once we were done at the bait shop we made a quick stop at the home of Lana's dad, Sam, to pick up the fishing gear and then we headed down to the Rec Centre parking lot to launch.

Kenora 2013: Shortest Day, Biggest Pay-Off

Kakabeka Falls

After a very restful night in Thunder Bay (followed by a delicious continental breakfast) we started out on the final leg of our journey west. It had rained overnight but had stopped long enough for us to load the car, although the air was cold and crisp and the sky dim. Almost as soon as we pulled out of the parking lot, however, the rain started up again and it was our nearly constant companion from there until about half an hour out of Kenora. As a result, our nearly compulsory stop at Kakabeka Falls was cut quite short: just long enough for us to take a few pictures from the viewing platform nearest to the parking lot and run for cover as the skies began to open up. In years past we have spent quite a bit of time at this gorgeous natural wonder, but this time we didn't even cross the bridge that you can see in the above picture. If I wasn't 100% certain we'd be back in the future this might have bothered me more; however, the single-digit temperature reading and the piercing rain washed any regrets right out of our heads.