Sometimes I sit with her and watch the silent television. As she doesn’t speak English, she likes watching the Discovery Channel best, but it seems to be an irregular channel. So she contents herself with recounting the events of last night’s Discovery special as we ignore a muted sitcom I don’t recognize.

“It was some place in India,” she says, “And a woman was making rotis in her kitchen. Then a BIG monkey with whiskers came to stare at her through the window. His face was so big it filled up the window space. Then she noticed and got scared and brandished her rolling pin at him. But will a monkey listen? No oh no. So what do you think he did? He brought his whole army from the neighboring jungle.”

“Were all the monkeys as big as him?” I interrupt.

Grandfather monkey with grandson, no doubt (Photo by YoungDoo Moon)

“No, I think he was all the monkeys’ grandfather, and they were all his children, some big, some small, but none as big as him. But listen now. The whole army of monkeys ransacked her house and upset the flour and ate all her fruit and by the time it was evening she was in such a state, in such a state, I tell you.”

Sometimes my grandmother tells me things about her past that she wouldn’t mention in the clear light of day. I imagine it’s kind of like how a bartender hears stories after the bar closes while he polishes glasses and sees his straggling patrons out.

It was during one of these moments when my grandmother told me about how the milkman fell in love with her.

She recalls it as an event more funny than flattering, as it happened on the porch on a hot morning while she was haggling with the milkman’s young apprentice as the mustachioed milkman looked on from his truck.

“There I was with Amin, your uncle, hanging on my hip and quite obviously pregnant with another child, sweating profusely in the 40-degree heat, accusing the delivery boy of watering down our milk. It was so watery, you know! But he convinced me that he didn’t water it but had to put large quantities of ice in it to keep it from curdling in the heat. Anyway, the next time the milk truck came, the delivery boy brought me our regular supply of milk with some extra ghee. I was such a frazzled thing with the never-ending housework and mischievous children on my mind, that I thought nothing of it. Perhaps your grandfather had changed our milk order, without my knowing, I thought. Anyway, this extra-ghee thing kept happening for weeks, and I never noticed the milkman in the truck across the street.

“One morning out of the blue the delivery boy handed me a folded piece of paper with our milk order, and said it was from his ‘master’. He gestured toward the large man in the truck across the street, with bulging eyes and a large, shiny, waxed mustache. The man was twirling the ends of his mustache and staring right at me. Looking back, I guess he thought his mustache was a real selling point, seductively speaking. Anyway, I was so anxious to get back to my chaotic kitchen that I hurriedly took the milk products and paper and went back inside.

Deilvering milk, India (Photo by J.F. Grossen)

“When I had a moment I skimmed the paper and found that is was an honest-to-god love letter. It said all sorts of nonsense like, ‘I see you from afar and have fallen hard for you – come away with me, I will provide for you and take you out of your prison . . . I’ve been sending you extra ghee these past weeks as a token of my love for you’ . . . Yes! I swear to God!” she says to my face that has contorted with wonder and amusement as I suppress a joke about how it really was hot where she lived, wink wink nudge nudge. “There I was a child on my hip and another one along the way and he writes all this nonsense to me!”

“Then what did you do!?” I ask, caught up in the hilarious indignity of it all.

“Listen, will you! Well I showed the letter to your grandfather that evening, and he was so angry, I quite enjoyed it. Next morning he went to work late and stayed home to get the milk. He told me to stay inside and let him deal with the milkman. He paid the apprentice for the month, and then told him, calm and reserved, that we didn’t want his milk anymore. To any questions or apologies or promises to serve him better from the delivery boy, he continued to repeat quietly that we didn’t want his milk anymore.”

My grandmother paused for me to take in the weighty implications of that phrase, and I nodded seriously. After a few more cycles of expressing shock at the milkman’s amorous overtures, we had extracted as much fun as we can out of the story.

“So even these things have happened,” she said conclusively, returning her gaze to the television which is now airing a home shopping channel. “That’s a really good knife set! I’ve seen this before . . . don’t tell anyone what I told you okay, your grandfather and I never mentioned it again and your father doesn’t even know. I just remembered the story now, I don’t know why. It’s gotten pretty late, let’s go to bed.”

I promised her I wouldn’t tell any of the family (a clever qualifier, if I do say so myself), say goodnight, and go to bed, feeling privileged.

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time in airports. Most recently I saw a friend off on her way to Switzerland for six weeks to learn French. (People do these things!) Before that, I was on six flights in three weeks, four of them over five hours in length. That’s a lot of hours not only in airplanes, but in airports. All those long hours of purposeful, anxiety-fraught sitting that manage to be more exhausting than running a half-marathon have got to be filled with something. I usually choose a steely yet non-threatening expression on my face (ideal message: not a security threat, but not a potential new friend either), the entire Weakerthans discography on my iPod (including John K. Samson’s 1993 Propagandhi-era solo EP “Slips and Tangles,” complete with the bitterly brilliant track “Airport Lounge”) and a new Shitty-Irish-Chick-Lit novel. It passes the time.

Lots to look at. (Photo by myself)

Sometimes I send annoyed emails to friends, reporting the (non-)action. For example, from last month: “So here I am in yet another airport lounge, listening to a blaring television that’s on a loop of death off to the right. Every ten minutes or so a commercial comes on for something that must be sad and child-related (I can’t see the screen) – a woman’s voice plaintively singing “Head and shoulders, knees and toes…” over a subtly swelling string section. Jealous?”

But, you know – those lost hours add up. And sometimes you have one of those moments when you think, “these minutes are as much a part of my life as any other minutes.” Two choices remain here: panic at the impossibility of living a spontaneous, carefree, world-trotting life when so much of that life tends to be spent sitting in relentlessly uncomfortable seats, or…eavesdrop. (Which may also induce panic. But really, if you eavesdrop on a plot to hijack a plane in an airport, rather than fear the ineffectual plotters you should probably move away in all haste so you don’t get knocked over as the plotters get bodily taken down by lumbering security officials.)

Traveling can be tiresome. (Photo by myself)

During one of my recent stretches of time spent in an airport lounge, I turned the tables and eavesdropped on some security officials. Very satisfying. One female official was standing behind a desk, desperately trying to look busy, as another, older male guard regaled her with his best war stories:

“Tell ya, had two tire totals in one day. Both in the same day! Like, two tires were totaled in one day. So I got myself a four-set of 10 ply plymouths, never had a tire problem again. Can you believe that!?”

Then, he unveiled his real corker:

“Got a couple kayaks, down at Jericho…oh yeah, I go there every week. I’m a member. One for someone your size. Well, originally for my daughter. One bigger one. For someone like me. Think fate’s telling us something? Haha…yeah, I’m an atheist too.”

Next time you’re in an airport, don’t close yourself in a bubble of pointless travel-induced-tension. Eavesdrop instead! You’ll be amazed at the intelligence, kindness, and sheer idiocy of the human race. You may also get a few funny looks. Please don’t sue me if you get taken down by security for staring at people and writing down everything they say.

Beverley Hills or Lululemon Lab Vancouver?

Swanky lululemon means I can look like a diva when I leave the house instead of a mom who made sure her kids looked good, but ran out of time for herself.  The designers, who work on site, made us feel pretty great about ourselves as we headed into the fitting rooms to create some new looks.  This is more than I can say for my friend Emme, who told me I remind her of an elf!  In her defense, she claims she meant an elf of the sexy variety, so I suppose I will let her off the hook.  She also discovered my belly piercing for the first time and got quite distracted.  After much bumbling around, we put something together.

Our new backs, lulu style

Of course, Emme and I kept everyone late because we just had to try everything.  I realized we were in trouble when we found out they design new items every two weeks.  Guess who will be seeing more of us?!

Playing Dress-up at Lulu

We didn’t overstay our welcome though, because we still got our goodie bags on the way out!  Little did I know, more adventure was in store.  There was a piece of fabric in our bags that we had no idea what to do with.

A Curious Gift

I spent quite some creative thinking time when I got home and….this is what I did with mine Emme!  What did you do with yours?

Lulu Wrap Designs

In true Fighting Chance tradition, the cast of HAIR were fashionably unique. As a now fashionista, I was particularly fond of all the men with bare chests.

WOW!!!! What a well spent few hours of my life!  HAIR was incredible! It made me laugh, it made me cry, got me dancing and it TURNED ME ON.  Didn’t hurt either that one of the stars of the show, Burger (played by Sean Parsons) kissed me in his underwear.  Fighting Chance Productions seriously cranked things up a notch (or three) with their rendition of HAIR, which was beautifully directed (by Ryan Mooney), choreographed, sung and played (under the guidance of Vashti Fairburn) and acted by the players (including Michael Brock as Claude, Cesar Erba as Woof, Amy Jean Mcelwain as Crissy, Ranae Miller as Jeanie, Jenny Moase as Sheila, Sean Parsons as Berger, Hal Rogers as Hud, and Ariella Tuliao as Dionne). Well done!!!

Clad solely in his tightie whities, the man in the middle kissed me in the first Act!

So seriously, this is THE MAGICAL THIRD DATE to take someone on to seal the deal.  Hell, if Brie weren’t married, you may have caught me kissing her, it was so HOT!  It wasn’t 10 seconds into the first act before I whispered to Brie that the cast must be seriously chaised if they weren’t having some oh, so terribly HOT, HOT sex throughout the rehearsing and run of the show. Just be warned that this is not the show for the kids, and if you happen to be adverse to nudity, then its not the show for you, as I am happy to report that there is lots of it.  Which incidentally, brings me to a bit of constructive criticism.  Ryan – Brie and I think you need to linger LONGER on the nude scene at the end of the first act, we were still busy soaking in all the beauty, when you so rudely cut us off.  Speaking of which, Brie and I want to know what happens at intermission, after the entire cast goes backstage naked. Do you have robes waiting for every which one? That would be a lot of robes.

Have to admit, I can't look at this lot without my mind instantly turning to sex. I'd like to think I'm not alone in that though ... Brie?

If you aren’t aware of the story of HAIR, it is a beautiful one of belief, ideals, horrific decisions and growing up in the 60s. Couldn’t help but reflect on the youth of a very dear friend of mine from the 60s and how the horrors that he saw transformed the rest of his life.

So if you do nothing else between now and August 1st, be sure to go and see HAIR at the Waterfront Theatre.  Trust me, you and your date will be thanking me for it.

Here’s a little preview:

and they have more teasers here.

Kisses,

Emme xoxo

PS Now Ryan – if any cast get sick this week, Brie and I would be happy to fill in.

PPS To the Two Gentlemen at the Cat’s Meow after the Show: It doesn’t matter how titillated HAIR may make a gal, comparing her hair to that of a horses and then commenting on her fine set of chompers, as though she was a horse at an auction, is not at all likely to get you any action.

So why a fashion week?  Aside from the clearly obvious, aka that I am just such a gorgeous glam puss that wouldn’t you all want to know what I am wearing. Well, it seems that I have joined the ranks of the fashionistas in the last week and am now on the guest list at a variety of fashion events.  Definitely not something that my Grandmother would have ever suspected of her tree climbing, bomber jacket wearing, running shoe clad granddaughter during the height of her career as a fashionista, when she owned a plush store of beautiful fabrics and tailor made women’s apparel.  But clearly since then I have learnt what the word ‘apparel’ means and I now wear dresses on my tree climbing excursions, making me uniquely qualified to discuss fashion.  Will that frock make me look absolutely fabulous and leave something to the imagination whilst I am climbing trees?  How washable is this garment when I inevitably spill red wine down my top? … All very important queries to a tomboy turned fashionable gal-about-town.

So what does the week have in store for you lot?  Well currently on the agenda (which tends to be ever changing), we have lined up:

• a post on the new Roots and Douglas Coupland Collection

RootsxDouglasCoupland Collection

• a guest post by the ever so gorgeous fashionista, Brie Mason, on lululemon’s new, “We Did It In Luon” Collection
• fashion photos from Fighting Chance Productions rendition of Hair, as they have a bit of a rep for daring fashion moves

Fashionably Fighting Chance

Now for my fashion muse:

In this picture, our model - @hummingbird604, is sporting sandle clad feet and sparkly toenails. This is all the rage for men this season.

Yes, gentleman, thats right.  It is fashionable this season to accessorize with sparkly nail polish.

So I hereby decree this Being Emme’s July Fashion Week (added the July in there, in order for sequels, which I know you are all just dying for).

I'd say my demands aren't this unreasonable (Image by F Delventhal)

Unfortunately, the want of a listener doesn’t stop my grandmother from thinking aloud, and loudly. Many times I have thought her muffled sounds from two rooms away were addressed to me, and so have dropped my work to present myself to her so she could speak to me directly. Most often, her utterances are inconsequential musings expressed while puttering about the kitchen about how we need more sugar, and no wonder we’ve run out because my mother works so hard, the poor dear, and has no time to go grocery shopping. Seeing me, my grandmother will extend this monologue into a litany of prayers for my mother and then for me, (May you always be happy, may God grant you success and wellness . . .) with her palms spread plaintively as she casts her eyes toward the ceiling. She will then hobble over to me and clap her hands on my shoulders and lock me into an awkward embrace, spewing prayers and good wishes all the while. When I finally pull away her eyes have begun to tear up, and so I must stay to comfort her, and am held thus captive for some time.

Gramma's Honey (Photo by Reway2007)

When I sympathetically offer her honey instead of sugar for her tea, she darts a sharp look at me as though I’ve missed the point entirely, and then begins her lamentation about how hard my mother works again, pretending she hasn’t heard me at all.

Recently I made the fatal mistake of not responding to one of her “May you be ______”s with an “Amen”. Considering how many times I have to say “Amen” when she starts with her prayers I thought it would save time for me to utter an all-compassing “A-men!” at the end of her list.  When my grandmother noticed my scanty “Amens” amid the balmy hopes and prayers she showered on me, she halted and screeched at me, indignant: “Where is your AMEN? Whenever you receive prayers, you must say Amen!” That was the end of the prayers I received during that conversation, and I thought I was safe from them for some time.

Wonder of wonders, I was wrong. I suppose she couldn’t stay angry at me, because later that night, she shuffled into my bedroom to deliver more of her holy entreaties for me. Even though I know I could use the free time, this time, I couldn’t bring myself to spare a single “Amen”.

Then I think: In order to live with all the perks that a thinner, better me has, I must correct my unsightly body. This project must be my top priority, since (good) life itself depends on it. Without being “healthy” I cannot be attractive to to others or myself and I won’t have the confidence to stand up for myself in work or love.

The above thoughts are repeated in endless cycles as the abundant media around us ensures they will, and soon produce automatic ideas: “As I am heavier than I would like to be, I am not beautiful and can’t enjoy my life like beautiful people can. I can’t get love from myself until I earn it by being “healthy” long and hard enough (never mind that this “healthy” isn’t really healthy).

‘When I see results in the future, and am finally beautiful, I will like myself and begin living my life. Until then, I must struggle my way out of this imperfect half-existence. If/when I am “healthy” then I will be happy.’ The beliefs that become formed in my mind are: being thin entitles me to a good life, so being heavier must mean I am less deserving of one.

I hope the above thought progression sounds crazy to most readers.  It is frightening that there are no other kinds of women’s magazines available; no other ideal to try and live up to than “thin”. Cognitive psychology proves that thinking something repeatedly makes it feel true; women are being set up by the abundance and monotony of these magazines to feel like sub-standard people if they don’t look like the models on the cover.

These women’s magazines are not only abundant, but monopolize the industry. It wouldn’t be so bad if “thin” wasn’t the only ideal propagated in magazines; then at least women would be encouraged to imagine more for themselves than thinness and beauty. If there were magazines that upheld other values like kindness, creativity, spontaneity, realizing one’s dreams to be a musician or a naturalist like Jane Goodall, it would mean that the public imagination recognizes the value of personality, interests, and goals – things other than thin.

Jane Goodall, Animal Scientist (Photo by Festiva della Scientza)

I’d like to think that despite the deafening messages from these magazines, heavier people aren’t mistreated. However, I recently re-read an interview with actress Gwyneth Paltrow about her role in the 2001 movie Shallow Hal, in which she played the leading man’s overweight love interest, and had to wear a fat suit for the role. She talks about how she felt the first time she wore the suit in public:

…when I walked around, nobody would even make eye contact with me. Like nobody would even look in my direction. Because I think when you get a sense of someone being slightly outside what we all consider normal, you think, oh it’s polite not to look. But actually, it’s incredibly isolating. And it really upset me. (source: nyrock.com)

The values of “thin-good/fat-bad” have been so widely accepted that being overweight is treated the same way as a serious disability. This attitude materializes in workplace discrimination: a study found that one in 4 managers admitted that they would turn down an overweight job applicant.

Even scarier, is that the diet industry – despite its relentless yapping – doesn’t want readers to succeed in achieving the “thin, better, perfect” body. Next time you flip through one, notice that a tag line like “Lose 10 pounds now!” is strategically positioned near a succulent looking “forbidden food”. The small print tells you it’s actually a new and improved cake/cookie/casserole and has half the calories. My first impulse is not to go to a store and buy this guilt-free snack, but to satisfy the craving the picture has triggered by whatever is on-hand.

Granola bar "inspired" by plastic surgery (Advertised in Yoga magazine, oddly enough. Feb 2010)

Also, the “Lose 10 pounds now!” might make me feel overwhelmed by this impossibility (really? now?), reminded of my body discontentment and drive me to console myself with whatever approximates the succulence of the cake/cookie/casserole that I have at home. This move means more self-hate and regret, which perpetuates the cycle.  The advertised perception of food and weight as a constant battle that deserves so much time, attention and planning makes the issue of weight loom so large  that attempting to change it can easily become more of a struggle than it needs to be. It doesn’t help that the results of one’s weight struggle decides how valuable a person is – a game so high-stakes is bound to produce anxiety and failure.

However tempting it is to rail at the cruelty of the diet industry, I think my energy is better spent replacing its infecting values with what I know to be true. I will disagree with these magazines: I am real now, and am always valuable; my body may fluctuate, but I am always me and deserve respect. It is up to us to derail the diet industry’s success by seeing ourselves truly, as complex, multifaceted, feeling beings who are as entitled to life as the next person.

I dream of the day when the editors of these magazines will actually have to put some thought into their work; when “women’s magazines” will be about more than one thing, and will not tout “eating your vegetables” as a novel idea hitherto undiscovered by medical science. In order to achieve this, we need to stop buying (and buying into) the magazines’ lies, and stolidly await the day they buckle under our collective demand for better reading material.

Vanity - Photo by Tambra

This ritual continues in his retirement; in fact he uses his new found freedom to spend even longer in his self-made steam bath, only to sit down – gleaming – to his breakfast and to putter about the house for the rest of the day.

One sore point my father has about his looks is his hair, that has been turning white for as long as I can remember. In years gone by I used to offer him the consolation of calling his hair “silver, not white”, and saying he looked “distinguished, not old”. Such attempts usually fall flat now, because his hair can no longer pass for silver or “salt and pepper” as he had firmly christened it. It is, for better or worse, now a colour that puts me in the mind of my old rabbit, Snowy.

Snowy (Photo by oceandesetoiles)

It took one occasion to push my father to action about his hair. At a party, he was asked if he wasn’t so proud to have such a lovely daughter to accompanying him? Unfortunately for these well-wishers, the woman by his side was actually my (deeply amused) mother.

Soon after that episode my father came home brandishing a dubious bottle of “hair tonic” that promised to make white hair black and black hair blacker. When asked why he didn’t just find a hairdresser to give him a proper colour treatment, he snorted in derision: he wasn’t going to be fooled into spending an arm and a leg to get chemicals put on his precious mane. Oh no, he was going to go about it naturally. My father held up the bottle with a raven-haired woman on it and showed me where it said: “Herbal hair dye for strong, soft black hair”. That settled the matter.

Dad's dream? (Photo by Wes Peck)

Next morning, while I straightened my bangs in the reflection of my laptop screen, my mother and I heard a shriek from the bathroom. The door flung open and my father stalked out, aghast, shouting: “Look! Look at this!” As he stepped into the unforgiving white light of the kitchen, we saw. We tried to stifle smiles, in vain.

But my father saw no humour in this. His hair was a distinct pale yellow. “Look at what’s happened to me! Stop laughing! It’s not funny, you know,” he said scathingly. “It didn’t say anything on the bottle. . . What am I going to do now?”

As he had just had a haircut prior to the colour experiment, he could not cut the offending yellow off without enduring near baldness. The only solution was to grow his hair and de-yellow it in increments.

Two months and two haircuts later, my father still has a Dennis-the-Menace curl atop his head. The only comfort I can offer him now is to say that he reminds me of a tropical bird. His colour catastrophe has not deterred him from his morning beauty treatments, which continue with unprecedented vigor. I guess this means I’ll continue washing my face and brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink for a while yet.

Having spent too many months feeling critically overworked and chronically behind on readings and projects, the idea of vacating my mind for joyful and unintellectual stupidity is as welcome as the rippling image of an oasis would be to a desert traveler. Somehow, though, any time off from an organized commitment becomes an opportunity for (and I loathe this term) Professional Development. And just like that, the oasis that made your mouth water is a mirage that fooled you into believing that it was really okay to finally take a break.

Photo by Mommamia

I should say now that I hold myself entirely responsible for repeatedly bypassing the oasis. As the moment the onslaught of work deadlines abets, I begin to think: How can I spend this windfall of free time wisely? What are my weaknesses, how can I improve upon them? How can I turn this summer into a stepping stone to make back-to-work/school easier? This of course, is in addition to the ”just for pleasure” reading list, the academic enrichment reading list, the driving lessons, community service, and the fact that now is probably the perfect time to enroll in intensive Mandarin.

All these good-intentioned, prudent goals conspire to make summer – that mythical time for lying in the grass, playing in the sand and curling up with books – seem a lot like the frenzied juggling of the rest of the year. I have squandered many a summer in this way, running like a headless chicken from one “productive” activity to the next, full of guilt for never doing as much as I had planned.

Summer guilt! The thought is absurd. So I have decided to turn my life around this summer by reclaiming the following (un)productive activities: reading fantasy novels, watching inane comedy shows, baking an elaborate birthday cake at least once, watching all the shows on the Food Network and deciding on my favourites, going ice skating, drawing pictures of seasides, lions and trains, taking leisurely walks in flip flops, stretching and falling asleep on the couch.

Some Need No Instruction for Lazing About - Photo by tanakwho

I have also decided that the above (not) to-do list is subject to whimsy and that no party is to blame if one or more of the items listed gets left behind or done to glorious excess.

I would dearly love to hear that I am not alone in planning days of summer indulgence. Advice from expert frolickers would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you imagine for your days ahead, especially if you, like me, have decided to give dogged industriousness a swift kick in the shins. I’d like to think that there are many of us out there, digging our toes into the sand and sprawled uselessly in the sunshine, collectively reclaiming our right to daydream and to lazy summers of yore.

I have a story to tell – and it’s not just any story. It’s a story about a major moment of glory. The fact that I consider this a glorious moment is, I suppose, a testament to my eccentricity. My moment of glory could easily have been another, more balanced person’s moment of abject mortification. Also, as I can’t see any of you, myriad readers, I will have to trust that the glaze over your eyes isn’t sufficiently viscous to prevent you reading.

Firstly, I suppose it has to be established that I’m a bit creepy/fangirlstalkerish about certain musicians. These include The Weakerthans, The Decemberists, The Mountain Goats, Hey Rosetta!, and…Dan Mangan. I have been lucky enough to see every one of my mild (wild?) obsessions live, most recently The Mountain Goats just last night at The Rickshaw, a show which one of my friends described as the closest to a religious experience he’d ever been. In other words: I’ve been to some fantastic concerts. None of them, however, can quite match Dan Mangan’s show at The Vogue in Vancouver BC, on May 8th 2010.

Photo: Christine McAvoy

It was the third time I’d seen Dan live, the first having been at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival in the summer of 2009, where, after chancing upon him performing with a group of other musicians, I made sure to be there every time he was playing, the whole weekend. I then bought his first album and EP, waited with baited breath for his second album, and have lived and breathed Nice, Nice, Very Nice ever since. Needless to say, I was a little bit excited about Dan’s sold-out show at The Vogue. My group of Dan-loving friends that managed to get tickets got there early, and we set up camp in the third row. From the first note of “Sold,” we were absolutely enraptured.

Being the slightly-creepy-fangirl-stalker that I am, I had read some reviews of Dan’s other shows from his nation-wide tour. Many of them mentioned a magical moment during “The Indie Queens Are Waiting,” which is a duet between Dan and the fantastic Veda Hille, when, in the absence of a female vocalist on the stage, the girls in the audience took up Veda’s part. This being a hometown show for Dan, combined with the obvious rapt attention of the audience, led me to believe that the same magical moment would organically occur when Dan played “Indie Queens” at The Vogue. However, and this was an interesting, perhaps even revelatory moment for me – moments have to start somewhere, or in this case, with someone.

The moment of truth arrived: Dan’s wonderful ten-piece(!) band left the stage, leaving him alone with all 1150 audience members. He began playing the quietly mournful “The Indie Queens Are Waiting,” and, the first time that Veda Hille would have sung alone, there was a conspicuous, and total, silence. I swear Dan looked a little surprised, and, with a wry smile, he said, “I couldn’t find Veda Hille, to sing those parts. I don’t know where she went.” Honestly, what’s a girl to do? The next time Veda’s part came around, I was sure that everyone would sing along. So, right on cue, I belted out, “Are we cool now?”

ALONE.

And I was LOUD.

Photo: Christine McAvoy

Dan looked over, straight at the area that I was sitting, and, despite my heart beating about seventeen times its normal rate, I kept singing. This was one of those marvelous moments that teeter on the edge of complete humiliation and endless glory. The girls in the section around me joined in on the “aaaaahhs,” and Dan said, “Perfect pitch!” and “I don’t even need a band!” Each time the group of us sang the next bit of Hille’s part, the rest of the audience laughed, but I swear it was a joyful (not mocking!) laughter. (Really. Someone filmed this and it’s on Youtube, so I’ve had time to assess it whilst my heart is beating closer to a healthy pace.)

Oh, alright…

One of the many reasons that I think the show was so fantastic was the aura of love and support that simply radiated from the audience toward Dan. When they laughed along with us Indie Queens that knew every note of Veda Hille’s harmonies, I knew I wasn’t alone in being proud that Dan is a Vancouverite, and a humble, charming, incredibly talented one at that. The entire concert was a moment of affirmation that I came close to finding in the Olympics, but never truly did until Dan Mangan took the stage, smiled, and began to sing. By the time he played “Robots,” the entire plaid-clad audience was on its feet, singing along, buoyed by the joy of being in a crowd that, for once, wanted only to sing “Robots need love too!” and bask in an atmosphere of what I can only call complicit, reciprocal…well, love.

“Tina’s Glorious Comeback”-level-glorious? Definitely.

Photo: Christine McAvoy