Time to click my red heels together?

Just a quick post cause I'm totally bogged down with work. But I couldn't resist...

So I've been driving to school this week (my friend is out of town so I have her parking pass and I'm trying to organize this wine tasting event...blah blah blah)...my regular radio station was dead air. I dunno why. So I hit the seek button and the next station up was a country station.
Ok, so I'm trying to learn to like country music...and I'm kind of sort of liking it...most of it. And this song comes on and it's lovely, and the chorus goes something like this, "...I want to walk you through a field of wild flowers...I want to pick you for ticks."

Seriously...no joke...I turned the volume up and strained to hear every word clearly. And I thought to myself...really? Really? Is that romantic? Really?

And then as I'm recovering from the shock of this song, a commercial for RVs comes on...which by itself is enough to send me reeling...but the tag line of the commercial is, "RVing and Country Music goes together like June and Johnny Cash."

Really? Really?

This was all too much for me before coffee.

Where did I come from?

I had an argument with a friend of mine the other day about whether or not Kevin and Winnie wind up together at the end of The Wonder Years.
Remember that show? Fred Savage...star of one of my all time favorite movies - The Princess Bride. He pops up every now and again, and still looks like he's about 12 years old.
Anyways, I looked up the final episode of The Wonder Years on You Tube and found a clip of the last five minutes. I was wrong...they don't wind up together. But watching it made me cry...it's really lovely narration...and a really simple story.

In contrast, this next story is a bit convoluted so bear with me. I should start by saying that I cannot confirm the absolute truth of the story. Some of it is my embellished memories from childhood, some of it mere neighbourhood gossip...and believe me we had some crazy neighbourhood gossips (housewives with nothing better to do but play tennis and gossip about the neighbours), and some of it I have recently heard fourth or fifth hand as it trickles through the grapevine to find me in another province.

The neighborhood I grew up in sometimes bore a striking resemblance to Orange County, or Wisteria Lane, or any number of fictional soap opera towns. I have an infinite number of ridiculous stories about it...but we'll keep it to just one for now.

Two families lived down the block from eachother...we'll call them the Hansons, and the Greens. Mr. Hanson was a high powered, well paid lawyer...work-a-holic...so dedicated to his work, in fact, that he used to bring his legal assistant - she of the stillettos and those nylons with the line up the back - on family vacations so that they could "get work done." Needless to say, it wasn't much of a suprise to the neighborhood when Mr. Hanson up and abandoned his family for the legal assistant - leaving Mrs. Hanson with custody of the children, the house, the Jaguar, and apparently, the liquor cabinet. Behind closed doors, and unbeknownst to the neighbors, she became a heavy duty alcoholic.

Meanwhile, up the street Mr. Green was carrying on his lovely life across the street from the neighborhood park. Beautiful large grey house with a veranda and a pink door, and flowers filling the gardens. He earned a good living and he and his wife were raising their three beautiful daughters: 2 blonde and one brunette, spaced evenly and perfectly - 2 years apart. He almost didn't even notice that it was happening, but his wife began to go out more frequently with her girlfriend - movie nights and weekends up to the mountains...vacations to Hawaii. He suspected nothing until his wife left him...for her girlfriend.

And so the jilted spouses mourned their loss together and slowly but surely love blossomed. Mr. Green moved his daughters down the street into Mrs. Hanson's lovely spacious home and they lived as a family - the dysfunctional Brady Bunch. And this lasted for years - at least through high school for us...and then some. But from what I gather, Mrs. Hanson's alcoholism became too much to handle - she developed cirrhosis of the liver, and was placed on a transplant list for a new liver. She got her new liver, but lost her relationship because she committed the cardinal sin of transplant patients. She began to drink her way through the second liver. Mr. Green decided he could no longer watch Mrs. Hanson kill herself.

I found out today that Mrs. Hanson died yesterday. And I have a lot of thoughts and emotions about that: sadness, anger, grief, disgust, pity, compassion...for a lot of the actors in this play. But maybe I'll leave it there for now. Mrs. Hanson died yesterday - early 50s, three children barely adult. She will never see her children get married. She will never know her grandchildren and they will never know her. And her death was caused by something she did to herself - knowingly...possibly not willingly...but knowingly. That makes me sad.

An alternative thought

I've been talking a lot lately about the importance of criminal defence, and rights under the Charter etc.
This morning I was reading from my Criminal Procedure case book, and I came across a quote from Justice Cardozo, an American judge. He talks about rights that have been afforded to accuseds, but then follows it up by saying: "But justice, though due to the accused, is due to the accuser also. The concept of fairness must not be strained till it is narrowed to a filament. We are to keep the balance true."

It's something to think about. I find that a lot of my learning goes like this...I become more and more passionate and perhaps extreme about something, and then a counter opinion will literally hit me like a ton of bricks and I'll sort of shake my head and wake up somewhere a little bit more moderate. Like someone yanking on the reins.

Hmmm...that reminds me...I want to go horseback riding.

And Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Honesty Can Be Pretty Ugly

I was working the other night and a man came in who had been charged with sexual assault. Though I have handled a lot of criminal charges, and though I have met a lot of people who have committed or at least been charged with a lot of heinous things, I have never been aware of meeting someone who has been charged with sexual assault.

My reaction to him was very unexpected, and has made me rather thoughtful in the aftermath.

I had to force myself to look him in the eyes. I had to force myself to shake his hand, to sit across the desk from him as opposed to inching towards the door. I had to force myself to push down the feelings of disgust, of revulsion, of fear that welled up in me. I had to force myself to not rub my arms when my skin began to crawl.

I was thoughtful of this reaction for two reasons: (1) why was my reaction so pronounced and so spontaneous - like a reflex, and (2) why was my mind so insistant on resisting this reaction because that was a conscious thought - "I must behave as if everything is normal and I am not having this reaction."

Was it a matter of pride? Of professional ethics? How about a response to some deep-seated feelings of victimization that precipitated when confronted with this person who had been accused of this - a crime of violence and power. I'm not suggesting that I have ever been the victim of a crime like this...or even close to it. But perhaps, even still, it was a sort of I-will-not-let-him-see-my-fear reaction. Sexual assault is a crime that all women - all women - live in fear of...perhaps not consuming fear...but it's there. Especially when you live alone, in a city, and you refuse to tailor your life to the safe places, safe times of day. Hmmm...that's funny, it seems like the more I refuse to live in fear, the more I am reminded of all the things there are to fear...but I digress.

Or perhaps I was afraid that my reaction was symptomatic of some unconscious racism (he was black), or prejudice (he was an immigrant). And I am afraid that despite my conscious effort and belief in openmindedness and equality, I am afraid that my heart hasn't quite caught up with my head yet. I am afraid that if my suspicions are true in that regard then it will reveal me and everything I believe as phony.

Or perhaps there were more noble intentions behind my actions - perhaps I actually do believe that people are innocent until proven guilty. There is no question that people who are charged with that offence are convicted in the public eye long before they are in court...and highly stigmatized. Perhaps I wanted to buck that trend and provide a little humanity, some respect, some sanity. I don't know...that seems a bit unlikely...even if it sounds good in theory.

Ok but then that begs the question...is it enough for us to treat people with respect or do we have to believe it too. Assuming he's guilty, I shook the hand of a rapist yesterday. That doesn't sit well with me...it actually gives me the chills. I don't know that my heart is big enough...that my mind is big enough to ever be ok with that.

Confused

I am terribly judgmental about other people's sense in fashion. Truly I have no right to be this way: 1) I am not the most fashionable person by far, 2) I don't actually wear clothes very well, 3) I'm a very safe dresser...really taking no risks with fashion. And I'm not judgmental in a mean point and laugh kind of way (well not outside of my head), but it's a sort of game for me...spot the one in need of a What Not to Wear makeover.

One of my favorite categories is those suffering from Versace Syndrome. I first diagnosed this syndrome while walking around Hong Kong, and have since noticed it just about everwhere I go. Winners department store is particularly guilty of spreading this disease. People don't seem to understand that ugly clothes are ugly clothes regardless of designer. It doesn't matter if the label Versace is stenciled across your ass - if it's ugly, you don't have a license to wear it. (Versace just seemed to be the most prolific of offenders in Hong Kong, thus the name).

Why am I talking about this? Because the other day I ran into a woman and she completely stumped me. Was her outfit brilliant or hideous? Here it is, a week later and I woke up thinking about it. She was dressed head to toe in shades of gray (which is sort of poetic in itself): gauzy floating skirt, layered v-neck t-shirts, wrist bands and ballet flats. Her hair was blonde and that kind of long crazy curly that just might spontaneously dreadlock if you give it some time. So at this point I'm ready to pass her off as a typical hippy...nothing particularly noticable. Except, there were holes all over her clothes. At first I thought that she'd just let a moth at them and was about due for another trip to Value Village. But the more I think about it now, the more Ithink that the holes might have been their purposefully - they seemed very strategic and well placed and allowed one to see the layers underneath.

I don't know...now I look back on what I've written and I realize that it has occupied far too much of my mind space for far too long. Oh well...

Oh yeah...and I've owned Sam Roberts We Were Born In A Flame for years...at least five. And I knew that people would rave about him and he's Canadian and therefore throw up your arms and love him, and I just never got it. But for some reason it has been in my play list a lot lately, and now I get it. I love him...he's lovely. It kind of reminds me of Smashing Pumpkins Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness which I was kind of ambivalent about when I first heard it, but the more you listen the more wonderful it is and there was a time I considered it one of my favorite albums ever. (Hey, that was back in the nineties...there have been a lot of albums since, and only so much room at the top of my favorites list).

Movie reviews

My oh my I have seen a whole pile of movies lately...most quite good: Shooting Dogs (about a Catholic school in Kigali during the massacre), Who Killed the Electric Car? (documentary about GM's shortlived, allegedly phenomenal electric car), Marie Antoinette (story interesting, once again irritated with Sofia Coppola as director, she just doesn't seem to speak to me...in this case I thought she didn't commit to one style or another and it bothered me), The Queen (just phenomenal, it's absolutely uncanny the portrayals in this movie, and the treatment of the characters is sympathetic, but human), An Inconvenient Truth (I don't know why all the environmental movies lately but I'm starting to build up quite a complex about my environmental fingerprint - I'm considering writing to BMW and telling them that despite the fact that I've wanted one of their cars since I was but a girl, I will be unable to purchase it in a few years when I actually may be able to afford it unless it comes in a hybrid variety...I don't know...this might just be my cause du jour).

But most recently I finally got around to seeing Bon Cop Bad Cop; a movie recommended by my sister at Christmas, that I just haven't gotten around to seeing. It was fantastic. A Quebec film about an Ontario Police officer and one from Quebec who have to work on a file together because the victim found himself in a rather unfortunate position crossing the border between the provinces. The movie is truly bilingual, though you can add which ever subtitles are required.

I was really proud that this movie was Canadian. I feel like so often NFB funded Canadian Content stuff is garbage, poor quality, poor acting, almost embarrassing. But this was exciting, high quality, visually stimulating, entertaining, quality film. And it was really funny. For anyone who has lived in Quebec and no longer does, it is such a wonderful reminder about the culture and language of Quebec. Language makes a prime candidate for jokes as the characters each prefer one over the other.

Anyways, I highly recommend it. Eve, if you can't get it, let me know and I'll send you a copy!

It was a win-win kind of day

Spent the day in court yesterday. They weren't actually my files, but I was supervising them...aka providing the words/argument to use.

The morning was a guilty plea that we had attempted to negotiate with the Crown. The Crown was completely unreasonable, so we went in without a joint submission and pled our case to the judge. Not only did the judge agree with my argument, but when the Crown piped up to try and amend the sentence and add on some terms, the judge pretty much dressed her down for being a bitch, and for being disrespectful. This gave me extreme satisfaction - not only were my arguments validated, but so was my competency. As students we often get disregarded by the Crown...we have to work twice as hard to get even a modicum of respect. It's nice when you get a judge who looks beyond your junior status and listens to your words.

The afternoon was a trial on a possession of marijuana charge. Arguing drug charges is always very interesting. As a senior defence lawyer said to me yesterday, "a drug charge without a Charter argument is called a guilty plea." In this case the drugs were obtained subsequent to a search incident to arrest. However, in our opinion the arrest was illegal because the officer lacked reasonable and probable grounds. If the arrest was illegal, then the search was warrantless and, barring exigent circumstances, illegal. The judge agreed, the evidence was excluded and the charges dismissed.

I got into an argument the other night with a cop at a bar. Now granted he was drunk and kind of beligerent, but he basically said that he would do what ever was necessary to put these "criminals" (referring to my clients) in jail. He basically called me, and all defence lawyers, scum. He didn't like it very much when I told him that by "doing what ever was necessary" and not following protocol and respecting Charter rights, he was making my job much easier. Cause the way I see it is that, yes, I am defending people who often have committed crimes. But if the evidence is there, and obtained properly, then these people will be convicted - most likely they will plead guilty. These cases create law, and that law binds all of us in this country. That law creates limits for authority to act within, and protects the liberty rights of all citizens: criminal or not. So, by enforcing the Charter rights of those within the criminal justice system, we are infact enforcing the Charter rights of everyone. If we allow unlawful arrests, and warrantless search and seizures of those suspected of crimes, where does that stop? What is a "suspicion" anyways? A hunch? Is that good enough? In my view it becomes a slippery slope towards a police state ESPECIALLY in this time where the government sanctions, increasingly, invasions into civil liberties. So if you look at it that way, I'm not scum...I'm a freedom fighter. Kidding, kidding...sort of.

A Light Bulb Moment

I woke up this morning with a single thought burning in my mind. You cannot control others - not how they treat you, nor how they behave in general. All you can control is yourself, your own behavior and your own treatment of others. And I suppose, at the end of the day, if you can defend your own behavior - if you can be proud of it - then that's all that matters.

Hmmm...somehow I feel as if a little weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Searched for something remotely comparable to the BBQ Pork Wonton Noodle in Soup from Kam Gok Yuen in Vancouver's China town today. This is a soup I have been eating since I was child with curly red pigtails and it is literally heaven sent. The meat is tender and succulent, the wontons firm and flavorful, the vegetables in abundance and the broth rich and filling. And all of this for only about five dollars - still to this day and cash only. Eating it is not only a taste delight, but it also harkens fond memories of family dinners presided over my late grandmother.

I remember walking through China town up East Pender Street on Sunday evenings with my family: cousins, grandmother, aunt and uncle. The kids would run ahead pressing our noses against the glass of the little shops, poking around inside and marvelling at all the curiosities: the Made In China toys and fans, wicker furniture, musical instruments and battery operated robots...the sorts of things found only in a classic China town store. I remember the sound of the shop keepers pulling closed the metal grates of their stores as they ended their business day, and I remember the glistening barbequed meats, sausages and poultry in the windows of the restaurants and I remember the steam pouring out of Kam Gok Yuen as the door opened. Inside defines the notion of no-frills: formica tables and mismatched chairs, cracked and chipped dishes with the ubiquitous pink chinese flowers, plain white tea pots and paper napkins. There is no ambiance at this soup kitchen - the wait staff is yelling at eachother in Cantonese, the chefs yelling out the orders as they come up, and every table bursting with extended Chinese families yelling at eachother. And everywhere there is a bustle: waitresses, busboys, children running around underfoot. The restaurant is packed every hour that it is open - a constant stream of people.

There is lots more on the menu other than soup...but funnily enough we never ordered anything else. Sometimes BBQ Duck instead of Pork, and I suppose when we were small we would just have the wontons with no meat at all - but always soup. Actually I lie...our parents would always order several plates of Gai Lan - a stir fried chinese green vegetable drizzled with hoi sin, a lovely salty-sweet sauce that would fool even the most veggie hating child and have them scarfing down platefuls despite themselves.

I always chuckle to myself when (especially in China) I am asked if I require a fork instead of chopsticks. I remember those dinners, when my chin barely cleared the table top, fumbling with the heavy chopsticks. Half my dinner wound up on the table. But I worked out those kinks pretty quick - that soup is too good to waste. You know, I don't recall our parents ever suggesting forks for the kids but we're all better for it - meh, I suppose if worse came to worse we could always spear the wontons.

And then I remember coming back out into the street in the twilight, and strolling back to our cars. I remember full bellies and laughing and tormenting our cousins and then home to footie PJs and the Wonderful World Of Disney, The Muppet Show and Fraggle Rock. Yup, we were certainly deprived as children, we were. The irony of course is that this place...the site of some of my fondest childhood memories...is also one of the poorest and miserable areas of Vancouver. Walking around Pender there are junkies and homeless people everywhere - discarded needles, and used condoms. They must have been there when I was little...they must have been. But while I remember a lot of things from those Sunday evenings...that I don't remember. I don't know if that would be best described as childhood innocence or ignorance. But I suppose that is a topic best left for another time.

I have digressed so far now to return to my original point doesn't seem very germane but I will for the sake of closure. I searched for a soup comparable but alas, Alberta continues to disappoint in that regard. We found a strip of soup kitchens, though the one we chose wound up not being truly Chinese. They had a nod to the wonton, but as the menu seemed primarily vietnamese, we decided to go with the pho. It was edible - good but not great. We'll keep working our way through the block though...I did see a "wonton house" that might have promise. The memories won't be there...but perhaps I'll find the flavor.

Sunny Day...Sweeping the Clouds Away!

Mmmm...the past two days have been gloriously sunny and lovely. Tomorrow is supposed to be warm as well. Yesterday I undertook the 45 minute walk across the river valley to school - head phones on, toque firmly in place. My new favorite walking-in-the-city music is Reverie; in particular 2 songs: Walking Around, and It's All the Same. My friend J introduced me to this music...he has a sort of eclectic, jazzy taste for music. I can always count on him to point me towards some off beat fabulous tracks and this group has just the right upbeat, funky, interesting flavor that adds so much to my walks through the city.

I had one of my night classes last night; we had a superior court judge come in and guest lecture. He showed up in sock-less loafers, with an enormous cooler full of imported beer, and proceeded to crack one open and hop up on the table to deliver his comments. I mean I've become familiar with the notion of beers with professors...just not generally in the classroom. I think this might beat out McGill's OAP and bringing plastic glasses of cheap beer to class with you. I mean this was condoned by the lecturer and it was nice, good imported stuff.

I totally made an ass of myself at the drug store today. So I use the pharmacy at the university cause they are cheap and convenient and I needed to renew my birth control pills. And the way it works is that you drop the prescription off at one counter, and pick it up at the other. And so I take my prescription up and this nice round middle aged lady takes it and it's all lovely. And then I trot off to run an errand and come back 20 minutes later or so, and go up to the pick up counter, and it's this totally young, cute, funny charming guy who's the pharmacist. And we're chatting about I don't even know what but in my head I'm thinking about how great this guy is and then he picks up my prescription and I realize that it's for birth control pills and all of a sudden it's like there's a short circuit in my brain. And now the hot pharmacist is instructing me on the use of these pills and I can't focus on anything he's saying, and I feel the heat rising in my cheeks and then I realize it's my turn to speak, and gibberish comes out. Like really I have NO idea what I was saying, I was just talking to talk and so now I've turned an embarrassing situation into a terrible one, so I slap my money on the counter, turn on my heel and bolt out of there as fast as I could. Oy....apparently I'm 13 years old again! And he knows my name too....Doh!

So I've decided that I'm at the point in post break-up where I'm going to bust out the slutty bar top...the gold sllinky one that has to be taped in place. This is what I just don't understand about these starlets that flash the cameras all their parts. It's just unacceptable in this, the era of seamless underwear, convertible bras and double sided tape. It just goes to show that even though you may have piles of money, there still might be Chevy's on cinderblocks in the front yard of your estate. Forget the on call manicurist...buy yourself a copy of Emily Post and a huge helping of class...(Ok...perhaps that's a bit conceited...but come on).