Fried Eggs

Originally posted at sweetspot.ca

Last week I had long, dark hair that hung to my waist.

Today, I have a platinum blonde mohawk that’s channeling Madonna circa 1992. And I’m loving it. Since my hair’s going to fall out in a few weeks, I figure I might as well have fun with it.

 

I have cancer.

I’d actually been growing my hair since my mother died of lymphoma almost five years ago. I was planning to donate it so that someone else going through cancer could get a really nice wig made from parts of my virgin brown hair. Ironic, I know. Then my boyfriend proposed and so I decided I’d wait to chop it until after the wedding next April. Then I found out I had breast cancer.

So to recap: I’m blonde because I’m going to be bald in a few weeks, with chemotherapy and radiation on the way, and a spring wedding to plan. Did I mention I’m only 25?

How I found out: Last April I was showering before bed and felt a small, hard nugget in my right breast, so the next morning I went to see my doctor. She sent me for an ultrasound and mammogram but reassured me I was too young for cancer and that many women have hard nodules and cysts in their boobs, too. So I didn’t panic. Those tests came back inconclusive and the doctors advised me to come back in six months or have a biopsy if I wanted to clear my mind. So we did the biopsy – just to be sure – and then waited for the results.

With all the reassurance and discussions I’d had with other women about having similar breast issues, I wasn’t worried. The day I went to get the biopsy results, I waltzed into the doctor’s office without a care. And then the doctor dropped the cancer bomb. Insert me, a look of utter shock and disbelief on my face.

After many more tests and doctor appointments, and thinking about whether or not I needed to lose my entire breast, I ended up having just the 0.8-mm tumor removed, along with a hunk of flesh a little larger than a golf ball. They also removed some lymph nodes to check for microscopic spreading of cancer cells. Luckily there was none.

My cancer is also hormone sensitive, which means once I’m done chemo and radiation I’ll be taking anti-hormone pills for three years to keep my hormones as low as possible. It’ll put me into temporary menopause but aside from the mood swings and hot flashes, I don’t have to worry about my period. See? There is an upside.

My wedding is on schedule despite the fact that I’ll be bald when I say “I do”, but if my husband-to-be can say it back knowing I’ve got a shiny head under my wig and veil, I think it’s a pretty good sign he’ll stand by me through anything. I feel great with my short blonde hair, and even anticipate buzzing it all off before it falls out. I’m also stoked to buy sexy wigs and play around like some sort of movie star. I’m obviously not thrilled to have to go through this ordeal, but I feel confident and know that everything I can do and that can be done for me is being done.

Instead of being angry with someone or something, I’ve decided to stick to the bright side. Rocking anything but a positive vibe just wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?

In 2003, Eddie Moretti, the head of VICE Films, and Suroosh Alvi, VICE co-founder, tracked down and documented the lives of the only heavy metal band in Iraq, Acrassicauda (pronounced a-cross-i-cow-dah, meaning "deadly black scorpion").

Happening almost by accident, the story of Heavy Metal in Baghdad was originally printed in an issue of VICE as a short article. After years of venturing back to Baghdad and having many personal conversations with the four band members: Marwan, Tony, Faisal, and Firas; their story was made into an intimate portrayal of the band's desire to simply stay alive and headbang to their music in peace.

Moretti and Alvi's main goal was to capture the day-to-day lives of innocent Iraqis who were forced to leave their home and become part of the largest refugee crisis in history. Moretti filmed Alvi sitting with members of the band in open, public settings like their hotel lobby in order to gain their trust - initially, the band was apprehensive of the filmmakers intentions. As the film progresses, we see the band and the two filmmakers form a close relationship. Near the end, there is an emotional moment inside the band's new home in Syria, as they watch footage of themselves from their experiences of the previous years.

Scenes of everyday Baghdad were also caught on tape. From their hotel room's balcony, Moretti filmed bombs blasting in the distance. Both he and Alvi voiced their anxiety countless times, knowing they could be shot down and killed at any moment, despite being armed and wearing bullet-proof vests. Walking outside was near impossible; their drivers often cautioning them to get off the streets and back to their hotel. Stopped by undercover police officials, Moretti's camera was put under scrutiny. Fortunately, he managed to keep the footage that became Heavy Metal in Baghdad.

The unique aspect of the documentary, which also included some clips of the band's live shows, is that while it is directly about a band, the power of music, and how it can connect people, it is also indirectly an in-depth, street-level look at the disastrous aftermath of the Iraq War. Ironically, while music is meant to connect, the members have endured nothing but hardship, having to leave their families in Baghdad and starting over in Syria where they work illegally for ridiculously low pay.

Screened during the Toronto Film Festival, there was a Q&A session after the film, where Moretti informed the audience of their failed efforts to bring the band into the country - the band was flat-out rejected by the Canadian Embassy. He also offered an adapted message from the band's Blog, originally written in slightly-improper English - they learned the language by watching American films and listening to American music, and as a result, use the f-word in every other sentence and refer to most people as "dude."

"So the last thing that hits our mind is to seek your help to get us out of here where we going to be able to live the dream of our life and being out there on stage with you wherever you are. Let the metal unite us let the metal rule. Yours, AcrassicaudA," Moretti read to the audience.

Moretti and Alvi ended the night with hopeful thoughts, encouraging everyone to vote for the film in the hopes of receiving enough press to give the band's story extra attention to get them out of Iraq. More information about the film and where you can donate money are available at www.heavymetalinbaghdad. com.

Published by The Medium

Pixar’s tenth animated film, UP, is filled with adventure, mortality, love and is coloured with humour throughout.

Carl Fredrickson, a 78-year-old widower does all he can to fulfill the dreams he feels his wife left behind. Although the film is in 3D, the real pops and shocks come from the astounding, rich love a man can have for a woman, and the lengths at which one will go to end up where they always dreamed.

With a cute and suspenseful subplot about saving a bird, the themes of wilderness and care for animals is carried out beautifully with Russel, the little explorer who ends up pairing up with Carl for the adventure; this movie takes innocence to a whole new level.

“The detail, and emotion in this movie is unreal,” said one guest at the advanced screening of the film.

Check out the film in 3D at your local theatre, out May 29th.

Published by Faze magazine

I have a glass table in my kitchen - it’s hard, cold, and transparent. I refuse to eat on it without a table cloth; I don’t like people being able to see my legs or feet while I’m eating, it’s intrusive. The floor is marble, it’s hard and cold too. It’s cold all year round; in the winter it’s cold from the weather, and in the summer it’s cold from the air-conditioning. I wear socks in the house at all times. When I don’t wear socks, I wear slippers. If I can’t find my slippers, I find some socks. The countertop is dark brown marble with swirls of black and gold spots. It looks like a little mean army living inside staring at me while I cook. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, sitting in dirty water. I don’t really mind to wash the dishes, I know someone has to at some point, but it’s the dirty water that I hate. The oily water stains my hands and chunks of old food get stuck underneath my nails. I hate that. The cupboards are brown and thick holding stacks of glasses and plates and bowls. They are organized in a very specific way. Everything fits perfectly into one another. No plates are allowed in the stacks of bowls. Bowls aren’t allowed in the stacks of plates. Everything has its own place. Forks, knives, and spoons, lay inside their own little section inside the top drawer near the dishwasher. Spoons aren’t allowed in the forks section, knives aren’t allowed in the spoon section, and forks aren’t allowed in the knives section. Everything in its right place. The fridge is filled with containers filled with leftovers. It’s always filled with containers filled with leftovers that end up in the garbage anyhow. We fill the containers with leftovers so we don’t feel bad for being wasteful. The containers end up in the piles of dirty, oily dishes that will stain my hands eventually. The dishwasher is silver, and the door only stays down if the bottom rack is pulled out. The dinner plates belong in the left hand row horizontally, the small bread plates line up vertically on the right hand side in front of the horizontal rows of soup bowls. If organize things that way, you can fit more. When you fit more, you don’t have to run the machine as often. The glasses on the middle rack have their own spot, tall glasses on the right, short glasses and mugs on the left. There is a top rack that can be pulled down overtop the shorter ones for espresso cups. The utensils work the same way on the flat top rack, everything should be placed next to its own kind so they can fit into one another and maximize the space.

Chug-a-lug down that drink
Yell and scream and throw a fit
Sip it back, rot your brain
Indulge in such traumatic pain
Kill your liver, your perception too
Might as well sniff some glue

They will get you wait and see
Paranoia for eternity
Drink and drive, drive don't drink
Vodka is the missing link
Whiskey helps to feel the bliss
Better than that one first kiss

Live in a bottle, no bulletproof glass
Don't be present at your funeral mass
Chew some candy, break a tooth
Snap some shots in a photo booth
Smile don't frown, hold the bottle high
Choose your favourite coloured tie

Learn to love the colour pink
Chug-a-lug down that drink.

All the houses on my street looked the same - save for minor details; the colors of the garage doors and the landscaping on the lawns - small homes; semi-detached back splits. Despite the fact that I was a tomboy - filthy, bruised knees and dirt under my bitten fingernails, with grass stains on my clothes mother would curse over - I had, nonetheless, a typical little girl’s room. Walls painted soft baby pink and white furniture. I slept on a single bed with a white and gold head and foot board. The blanket did not match the decor, but it was warm to cuddle with so I opted for comfort opposed to visual appeal. (I was six, what the hell did I care about decor anyways?) A white wicker shelf stood to the right of the foot of my bed. I filled it (my mother filled it, rather) with dolls that weren’t meant for playing with, but for looking at. Two in particular; a white porcelain one wearing a navy blue velvet dress with lace trim, and hair that fell off because the glue became un-adhered to her head, the other, a larger doll with long brown that fell in waves and the prettiest painted eyes a doll could possibly be given. And so these dolls sat in my almost indistinguishable house, in my girly room that I couldn’t relate to, on the wicker shelf my mother decided to fill.

It was a dead hour - quite late - and the city, I’m sure, had retired for the night as I had tried to. I lay in bed wide-eyed and stared around my tiny room. My eyes caught the dolls. They continued to sit, the same content expression on their faces. As that expression remained unchanged, both dolls turned their heads and looked my way. In that exact moment, my closet sporadically went up into flames. The dolls watched me while the room became warm as the heat of the fire burned my eyes. The pink on the walls turned orange. The fire, however, didn’t spread, and the flames remained the same size. In what seemed to be only seconds, the heat felt bearable and my eyes hurt less. Oddly enough, nothing around the burning closet caught fire. After a few more moments, some neighbors came into my room - how they got in my house I didn’t know. They sat on my bed, one by one, as more and more people came in to see the phenomenon, until my bed was bombarded with bodies.

Between blinks, I saw a kangaroo hula-hooping. At the sight and sound of a red flashing siren, the hula-hooping came to an end. I was the only one who saw this hula-hooping kangaroo. In the meantime, the closet continued burning, and the people continued watching. It was regular and idle. No one seemed to mind, no one said a word. My room was filled with silence, not even the flames made a sound. It was something out of a silent film. We all sat - the neighbors, the dolls, and myself - and watched my closet burn.

When I woke, I quickly sat up - tears in my eyes and I’m certain I was sweating. I panned the room over - the dolls still sat, the closet was unscathed and there were no more people inside. I called for my mother. She held me in her arms in a way she hadn’t done for some time. She hushed my fears while stroking my forehead, pushing the hair away from my face. We stayed that way for a few minutes. She put me back to bed, gave me a glass of water and told me it was just a dream, to rest.

I lay under the blanket that didn’t match the decor, that was on the bed which had been covered in people, in the typical little girl’s bedroom with the closet that had burned, with the dolls my mom placed on the shelf which turned their heads to look at me, in the house that looked the same as the others.

With a steady hand, Gloria swiped brown liner over José's shaved eyebrow. She drew a long, arched sperm shaped brow. José quickly turned to face the mirror.

“Shit girl, it's gorgeous!” he gasped. If the apples of Gloria's cheeks weren't covered in rouge, he would have noticed her blushing in delight. Taking the liner from her hand, José attempted a sperm brown of his own. His hand shook on the end of the sweep. Gloria grabbed him a moist cloth and he wiped the brow off his face. Gloria had taken José under her wing to turn him into the perfect woman. He didn't care to lose his parts, just liked to cover them up under leopard g-strings, fishnet pantyhose, and tight hot pink leather skirts. He spent all his time in front of the mirror, transforming himself into bombshells, surrounded by posters of Raquel Welch, Bridgett Bardo, Farrah Fawcet and the rest of the angels that littered his bedroom walls. As for Gloria, she desired José more and more the tighter his skirts and higher his heels. His painted lips were like luscious strawberry's, pouting wet as if they were full of juice.

José's 11 year old brother, Alfie, sat cross-legged on the bed admiring Gloria is all her sequenced glory. While his friends were outside building forts, riding bikes, and getting grass stains, Alfie was falling in love. Gloria had little attention left over to give Alfie, but when she did she'd tousle his hair and prance around the room in patent leather heels. “Hey Alfie, do you like this shirt?” Gloria asked while twirling herself into a twinkling tornado. If she actually waited for a response, she would have noticed him blushing in delight. She continued to twirl, singing along to Cyndi Lauper's She's So Unusual. She attempted to grab José's hand to suck him into her tornado, but he wouldn't peel himself away from the Latin glamazon reflecting in the glass.

Gloria initiated another try at the eyebrow. “Alfie, do you have a pencil sharpener?” He left to fetch the tool. While they waited, Gloria tried something new to get José to pay her some mind. She ran down to the kitchen to get a tea bag, and then swooped into the bathroom. She covered her jaw, chin, and upper lip with Vaseline and then covered that with the contents of the tea bag. It appeared she had grown a short, stubbly beard in seconds. Returning to José's bedroom she asked him to pass her a pair of socks. He threw them over to her without turning around. Gloria stuffed them into the crotch of her tight, high waisted jeans. She threw on a baggy t-shirt, shoved her ponytail into a baseball cap, hunched her back and stuck out her pelvis.

“Eh hot stuff,” she asked in her best interpretation of a man's seductive voice, “how do I look, mama?” José turned around to look at her.

“Girl, you are one ugly man! Take that shit off your face! The question is, how do I look?” he lifted his newly drawn sperm brow. Just then, Alfie returned with the sharpener and handed it to his brother.

“Alfie, what the hell did you do?!” José squealed at him. Alfie was cut, bleeding, and hairless where his eyebrows used to be.

“I shaved them off. Where's Gloria?”