Screw integrity ... I just can't make myself read this book.

Okay, here's the thing.

When I started this blog in February, my very first idea (after writing about how difficult it is to choose a blog name) was to write about "The Secret," Oprah Winfrey's book choice and latest pet philosophy. (Note: technically I suppose that it's not even her latest pet philosophy - now she is on to Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth ..." but it's one of her more recent ones.) I had vaguely heard of this book and film, but happened to catch an episode of Oprah that featured the bestseller when I was home sick.

I learned from the program that "The Secret" is based on "The Law of Attraction" which basically goes like this: Your thoughts either attract good things to you or bad things to you. If you think positively about things, you will attract positive things. That's it. That's the big, stinkin' secret. Do you feel better? Do you feel that your life has been revolutionized?

Of course, I do believe in the power of positive thinking. It makes perfect sense that you will be happier if you try to view your life with a positive attitude and remember that you are lucky for the things you have. But "The Secret" very explicitly states that if you think "properly" about what you want, you will get it, regardless of what it is. A perfect body? No problem. A million dollars? Easy! A trip around the world? Just think it, you'll get it! According to "The Secret," the Law of Attraction is essentially a giant cosmic vending machine.

In order to illustrate the incredible power of the Law of Attraction , Oprah interviewed a woman who had employed a Secret-endorsed "vision board" to achieve her goal. The woman was remodelling her kitchen, and pinned a picture of a stove that she really wanted to her bulletin/vision board so that the stove would "come to her." Then she went out and bought a stove! Wow! Cue heavenly chorus of angels singing in delight!!

See, before I watched "Oprah" I would have thought that she had acquired the stove through the Law of the Exchange of Money for Goods and Services. But no! It was the LAW OF ATTRACTION.

Oprah then interviewed a second woman who was single a year earlier. She read "The Secret." Then she met somebody and, a year later, got married. It was the Secret in action! How else could she have possibly met a member of the opposite sex? Cue heavenly chorus blah, blah, blah.

I was so fired up about this ridiculous Oprah episode that I immediately turned on my computer in order to write about "The Secret." But then I hesitated; should I write my second blog about a book I have never read? Won't that cause my 2.1 readers to question my journalistic integrity? I reluctantly decided to postpone the blog until I had read the book.

This created a problem for me, as I was determined not to spend one red cent on the book itself. I must admit that I did toy with the idea of stealing it from a bookstore. I figured that if I got away with it, I could attribute it to the Law of Attraction ... I wanted to read "The Secret" and it "came to me!" How's that for a scientific trial? But then I realized that I probably didn't have this "attraction" stuff down yet and I would probably get arrested and then fired from my job and I certainly wasn't risking all of that for the damn "Secret."

I decided to turn to the Toronto Public Library. I checked the online catalogue and learned that despite the fact that there are 274 copies in the Toronto library system, I was number 511 on the "hold list." So I resigned myself to waiting for 6 weeks until the book finally came in to my local branch. And then I started to read it.

My problems with "The Secret" are as follows.

1.) It's not a "secret." That's right ... these questionable ideas have been around for ages, and no amount of cover art featuring an unbroken wax seal will change that fact. (You can see from the picture that I'm not even joking about this. What, like the wax seal is going to prevent me from OPENING THE BOOK? I guess it will sell a lot of books to fans of "The Da Vinci Code" though.)

2.) Here's what you may not know, middle America. When you want something, and you create a "talisman" (say ... a picture of a stove on a "vision" board) and focus your energy on it, you are essentially following the dictates of pagan spellcasting. Yep - you are purchasing repackaged Wicca! I'm open minded, middle-America, so the fact that you're choosing to cast spells certainly doesn't bother me! But I'm willing to bet that it bothers you! Doesn't it, minivan-driving Oprah fan?

3.) It is essentially a license to be lazy, which may be one of the reasons for it's runaway success. According to the book, you just have to think positively and you will amass incredible wealth. Seriously. No job required. Same goes for losing weight - if you are carrying around extra weight it is because ... you guessed it ... you attracted it to you! Just stop doing that, will you? Attract money, not weight! Jeez, how much easier can we make this?

4.) The Law of Attraction only seems to "work" for shallow, lame-ass requests. A stove? A fiancee? What about the research scientists who have dedicated their lives to finding a cure for Cancer, Cystic Fibrosis or HIV/Aids? Are they not thinking "positively" enough in order to "attract" the cure? Surely the collective power of ALL of the people in the world who have been affected in some way by these diseases and want them eradicated should be enough to do the trick. Shouldn't it?

5.) And what about the people who SUFFER FROM those diseases? Did they "attract" the illness? And what about people who have suffered around the world? What about the Jews, the Slavic people, the disabled and the homosexuals who were massacred in the Holocaust? What about the Kulaks in the Ukraine under Stalin? Did they "attract" their fates? What about people who are starving around the world? Why aren't they "attracting" food? Is the fact that they are starving their fault?

Incredibly, according to the book, IT IS their fault. Read this quote ... if you can bring yourself to:

"Often people ... recall events in history where masses of lives were lost and they find it incomprehensible that so many people could have attracted themselves to the event. By the law of attraction they had to be on the same frequency as the event... If people believe they can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they have no control over outside circumstances, those thoughts of fear, separation and powerlessness, if persistent, can attract them to being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... Nothing can come into your experience unless you summon it through persistent thoughts. (page 28)

And that's the point where I stopped reading the book.

Sorry about my lack of journalistic integrity, but I simply can't keep going. I didn't even make it through 30 pages, and I feel filthy. I do stand by my original assertion that "The Secret" is incredibly lame, but now I have to add ignorant, poorly written, and a hugely offensive waste of time. I don't know if you could classify a work blaming genocide, disease and famine victims for their situations as "hate literature," but it certainly walks a line. And there were many more idiotic ideas in the first 28 pages that I could have written about as well, but I'm tired of throwing up in my mouth.

I'm taking the book back to the library tomorrow, and I will enjoy watching it vanish into the "returns" bin. But I have put a post-it note on page 28 in the hopes that a future reader will find it. It reads as follows:

"If you have read this page and you want to keep reading, read this page again. If you still don't see what's wrong with this book, then go back to the library and take out a history book. Any history book will do. If you still don't see what's wrong with this book, then certainly the "Law of Attraction" will bring you what you deserve."

And I think I'll skip Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth."

A

You say it's your birthday ...

... it's my birthday too. At least, it's my birthday for another 39 minutes.

I'm not gonna lie - I feel a bit cranky about my birthday this year. After all, I am now 35 years old. I can no longer desperately cling to the "early 30's" label - I must admit that I am definitively in my "mid 30's." If I am immature, which I think it is clear that I am, I can no longer blame it on age, but must chalk it up to fundamental deficits in my personality. And with each year that passes it becomes more and more clear that I will probably never be an Olympic competitor in any sport. Not even the discus.

Not that my birthday is all bad. My birthday is on "Earth Day," which accurately reflects my political and philosophical sensibilities. I enjoy having a reason to go out with my friends and family for dinner and events and spend piles of money because I "deserve it!" I actually share my birthday with one of my best friends, Graham, which is really fun. And although I feel cranky about getting older, I wouldn't classify my birthday as simply "the devil" as my friend Becca does (although her bitterness could come from the fact that she is four days older than I am... sucker!)

But I do sometimes wonder about our obsession with birthdays. I am grateful that people want me to have a happy birthday, but why is it a big celebration in my honour?

Really, if we are going to honour someone today, it should be my mom. Thirty-five years ago she brought me into this world by squeezing me through a very tiny, very sensitive part of her body over a period of about eighteen hours. I finally emerged looking less than perfect (I have seen the pictures.) She then held me while I was covered in slimy goop, gazed into my pruney face through a morphine-induced haze and decided to house and raise me IN SPITE of what I had just put her through. Really, that is an incredible amount of devotion. All I have really done to hold up my end of the bargain is to keep on breathing until 35 rolled around. Mom truly did all of the heavy lifting.

Hmmm... I feel less cranky about turning 35 if I assume the holiday is all about my mom. And I don't want to get overexcited here, but with this new view on birthdays I'm fairly certain that I am on the cutting edge of a greeting card revolution, which means inevitable wealth and fame. So "Happy Alison's Birthday, Mom!" Thanks for putting up with me.

A

In Memoriam

Jennifer Headley - 1972-2006

I walked up the 1,776 stairs of the world's tallest building yesterday, and it got me thinking about religion and what I believe.

For the last two years, my friends Jennie, Sherry and I have climbed CN Tower stairs in order to raise money for the World Wildlife Foundation in memory of our friend Jennifer Headley. Jenn was working for the WWF in Nepal when the helicopter that was bringing her and twenty three others home from a conservation site crashed into the mountains in September, 2006.

Losing Jenn was a terrible shock. We lived a few doors away from each other in high school, and Jenn was a huge influence on me in my teenage years. I had been relentlessly bullied in elementary school, and the thought of going to a big high school full of strangers terrified me. We met in the school photo line, and I don't remember our conversation, but I do remember that the photographer was furious with us because we just couldn't stop laughing about whatever it was that we had been talking about. That laughter became a cornerstone of our entire friendship.

Jenn inspired me in several ways. She encouraged me to join a local theatre group, which was the starting point for a lifelong passion. We both loved music and singing, and participated in school choirs together. She was incredibly politically aware at a young age, and I started reading the newspaper to try to keep up with her. Perhaps most importantly, Jenn's appreciation of my qualities gave me confidence in them myself, confidence that I had never had before. And it wasn't just me - she did this for everyone she knew.

When you walk up 1800 stairs, it gives you time to think (particularly because it is far too difficult to speak.) I thought about how grateful I am that I am able to do the climb with two people who knew and loved Jenn. I thought about how angry I still feel that someone who dedicated her life to helping others and healing our planet should be taken from the world so prematurely. And I thought about my religious beliefs (or arguable lack thereof) and yearned for some answers.

I have always had an uneasy relationship with religion. I was raised in the Anglican church, but really learned by rote, and didn't spend a lot of time considering the real implications of the Christian faith. Later in life I attended a Baptist church at a time when I was yearning for answers, yet became disillusioned with their strict stance on various social issues, particularly same-sex relationships. Now I don't think very much about religion at all, to be honest. But around flight 75 of the CN tower stairs I began to think about the afterlife. I don't know if there is such a thing as Heaven; if there is, then Jenn is certainly there. But here's what I do know:

I believe in an "afterlife" here on earth. I mean this in a few different ways.

The force of Jenn's personality remains after her life so strongly that people are united and inspired by her memory. Sherry, Jennie and I live different lives in different cities, stretched to our limits by jobs, travel and family, and it is Jenn that brings us together for this event every year. It was Jenn that motivated me to turn off all of the electrical appliances in my apartment for 12 hours instead of 1 during the "Earth Hour" campaign. It is Jenn that inspires me to travel and discover new parts of the world while living responsibly in it.

But it goes further than that. I met Jenn at such a formative time in my life that she truly affected the way that I developed into a young adult. If I examine the roots of my political interests, my first stirrings of courage in adolescence or the factors that led me to becoming a drama teacher, I find that Jenn has influenced all of those qualities.

I don't know if Heaven exists or not. But I do know that a part of Jenn still lives, here, in the people that knew her. The influence she has had on my life is so profound that I think that it is impossible to separate the parts of me that developed independently of her from the ones that she helped to cultivate. Now it is my responsibility to live up to the this challenge: to take the gifts she has given me and to do something productive with them.

Jenn, I miss you. But you are not gone. You have left within me the unique and beautiful aspects of who you were, inexorably intertwined with who I now am. And for that, I am forever grateful.

Best. Taxi. Ride. Ever.

I swear to God, this happened.

I was coming in late to work last Friday morning, as I had a meeting with a "financial manager" at my bank. I have one of these meetings per year, essentially because I have read that I should, and each year it goes pretty much the same way. I sit down, try to look businesslike and impressive, and then lapse into a banking-induced coma. I try to focus and concentrate, but what I hear is basically "blah blah blah blah blah credit line blah blah blah blah credit card blah blah blah blah blah blah RRSP." Then I leave, certain that I am going to face financial ruin.

After my ever-so-enlightening meeting, I began to walk to school, hopelessly trying to manage a coffee, my laptop bag, my ipod and my umbrella, all the while wedging a "Now" magazine between my upper arm and my ribcage. After my umbrella blew inside-out for the fourth time in sixty seconds, I hailed a taxi. (Note: Isn't it funny that I would hail an essentially unnecessary cab just minutes after worrying about my financial solvency? Aren't I clever? Anyway.)

I heaved myself and my various accoutrements into the cab and settled back against the seat, expecting a quiet ride. After all, it only takes about 10 minutes to drive from my bank to school. But it was not to be. Immediately the driver asked me my name, and told me his. Will Levine was in his early sixties, with a round, tortoise-like face and one of the biggest, sweetest smiles I have ever seen. He opened the conversation with a biggie:

"So, what's your story?"

"Can you be more specific?" I asked politely.

"Well, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a high school teacher. English and Drama."

"Drama, eh? You must meet all kinds, being interested in theatre."

I smiled. "Yep, all kinds. But you must really meet all kinds of people, driving a cab."

"Oh yeah, especially late at night. I'm also a magician, so I meet all kinds that way too."

Now, this was getting good. I love magic of all kids - little simple card tricks and big, showy, David Copperfield tricks. My brother can do some magic, and one of his tricks can literally keep me entranced for days. One in particular, involving a disappearing hanky, kept me entranced for YEARS until he finally showed me how to do it. And you know what? I'm still entranced by it, even though I know the secret. I was gearing up to ask him questions about performing magic when he dropped this little gem on me:

"Of course, I don't do 'stage magic.' I do real magic."

I took a moment to ponder the possibilities of this statement, and before I could respond, he continued:

"The real magic is how I meet the most interesting people. I can see stuff that regular humans can't. Last week I had aliens in this cab, right where you're sitting now."

Upon hearing this, gentle readers, I did what any self-respecting product of 21st century media would do - I scanned the cab for hidden "reality tv" cameras. (Note: This is the type of thing that keeps teachers up at night - some kind of permanent record of their idiocy and/or embarrassment that their students can record on their PVRs and then put on Youtube. I know I'm not a celebrity, but that's no guarantee that some Ashton Kutcher-type- slacker-actor-douche isn't going to try to screw with me at some point. Vigilance is ever my watchword.)

"Aliens, huh?" I said, testing the waters. "Did they look like people?"

"They did when they got in," he said earnestly. "But then one of them asked me if I'd ever seen an alien. I told him I hadn't, and then he asked me if I wanted to. I said yes and then he changed."

"What did he look like then?"

"Kind of like a bear, actually."

"Wow," I said.

"Yeah."

"Were they good tippers?"

"Not really."

I decided to try to converse with him on his level. "So, when you say 'real magic,'do you mean Wicca?" (Note: I actually went to Teachers' College with a Wiccan and went with her to a couple of events to see what it was all about. I wouldn't call myself religious per se, but as religions go, it's a pretty groovy, nonjudgmental one. I've got a lot of respect for the Wiccans.)

"Not really. Wiccans use their magic to manipulate things in the physical world. I use my magic to communicate with the astral plane. I speak to ghosts and demons." I'm going into business with a demon, actually. His name is Marchosias." (Seriously, follow the link. Apparently he's the "Marquis of Hell.")

To my chagrin, I saw that the taxi was pulling up to my school, but I just couldn't let that one lie.

"Business? What kind of business?"

"It's going to be called 'Ethereal Consultants.'" Will pulled the taxi over to the curb by the front door of the school. "If you have a problem you can't solve, we'll solve it for you with magic."

"Do you have business cards yet?" I asked hopefully, taking out my wallet for the fare. I mean really, how great would that business card look on my bulletin board?

"Not yet."

"Rats."

I paid him, thanked him for the ride and got out of the cab with a smile on my face.

There are two possible explanations for the epic arc of this cab ride: 1) I am going to be on Youtube any minute now or 2) Will is not quite playing with a full deck. But I don't really care. To have any kind of interesting conversation with a complete stranger is a rare, rare thing in this world. Life would be a lot more entertaining if we all just skipped the "What do you do/how are the renovations going/have you made your RRSP contributions?" kind of conversations and just blurted out our weird and wacky ideas. And I would certainly rather talk about demons than Paris Hilton or "Dancing with the Stars" any day.

Mr. Levine, I wish you the best with your business ventures - demon based or otherwise. Perhaps you'll become a kind of Mamet/Miller hybrid ..."Willy 'the Machine' Levine"... and become a huge mogul in the ethereal world. And if anyone reading this blog ever gets into Will's cab in the future, please see if you can score me a business card for my bulletin board.

Rrroll up the Rrrim for Crrrrrap.

This is not a picture of my thumb. This thumb is too victorious. What do I mean? Read on ...

Somehow, despite the fact that I am addicted to Tim Horton's coffee, I have never won ANYTHING during the annual "Roll up the Rim to Win" contest. Not one thing. EVER.

For those of you who have been living under a rock (or in America ... or under an American rock) Tim Horton's coffee is more than just a beverage ... it's a fundamental part of the Canadian lifestyle. If a Canadian were to get mugged between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 am and had to choose between handing over their wallet or their Tim's coffee, there would have to be some serious consideration of the pros and cons of both choices, possibly involving flow charts and Venn diagrams. And if the coffee itself wasn't addictive enough, every March and April, they distribute the coffee in contest cups that may (or may not) have a redeemable coupon under the rim.

The contest seems to cause a bit of a frenzy in Canada. Everyone has a "technique" for actually unrolling the adhesive-laden (and often a bit saliva-soaked) rim. My friend Megan very tastefully uses scissors to snip the cup on either side of the prize area to get the "rim rolling." Me, I fold the empty cup in half and then use my thumbs to unveil the (invariably) pink portion of the cup which chirpily encourages me to "Play Again!" Not to be outdone by myself or Megan, another of my colleagues (I am not making this up) has a "rim roller" keychain, manufactured specifically for this purpose, and this purpose only.

It can certainly pay off to roll those rims. There are some big ticket prizes up for grabs including cars, boats, GPS systems and cash. You can win $50 gift cards redeemable for Tim Horton's food and coffee, which could lead to literally weeks of blissfully caffienated mornings. And, even more persuasive, there are the ugly cautionary tales about what could happen to you if you DON'T roll up your rim, and foolishly discard the cup with the rim intact.

Two years ago, a 10 year old girl found a cup with an unrolled rim in a garbage can in her St. Jerome, Quebec elementary school playground. Her little fingers were too chubby to unroll the rim herself, so she asked her 12 year old friend to help her. When the girls unrolled the rim together they discovered that they were the proud new owners of a $28,000 Toyota SUV. When they ran home to tell their parents, a bitter dispute erupted between the two families as to which child actually "won" the prize. The controversy escalated when the original owner of the cup came forward demanding a saliva DNA test to prove that that she should be awarded the prize. Tim Horton's finally decided to award the SUV to the parents of the girl who originally discovered the cup (as a minor she could not collect the prize herself.) Justice prevailed, I suppose, but maturity and grace suffered.

Here's the thing. I don't care about any of the big prizes.. I don't want a SUV or even a prize card. I just want a damn donut. According to http://www.rolluptherimtowin.com/ Tim Horton's gives away 31,000000 food and drink prizes per year. But not to me.

This has become something of a joke within my social and professional life. For the last three years I have bought my friend Kevin a coffee in the morning to help him ease into the workday. Our coffees are differentiated by distinctive markings on the lids ... his has a big R (for regular coffee) and mine has a D (double-double.) Kevin has probably won 30 donuts from rims that I BOUGHT WITH MY MONEY AND BROUGHT HIM WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS. And my coffees ... nada.

Two years ago I was whining about my bad coffee luck to my brother, while he was driving me home after yet another fruitless attempt to win a donut. "Here," he said generously, reaching into a compartment below his dashboard and pulling out a handful of torn rim coupons, "take some of mine." Needless to say I pushed them away disdainfully. "I want to win my OWN donut." I sniffed haughtily. "The next one I buy will win. You'll see."

And here we are today ... two years after that statement ... and I have NEVER won myself a donut. How can that be? It's true that my luck is inconsistent to say the least - at 22 I was probably the youngest citizen to have have been audited by the government of Canada. I have been called for jury duty FOUR TIMES in my life. But I wonder if there are larger powers at work here. Perhaps the universe is preparing me for my inevitable SUV rim? Maybe I am not supposed to win until a prize that I really want is up for grabs, like a trip to Iceland or a role in a Bruce Campbell zombie movie or ... a pony!

Look, I'm trying to be mature about all of this. I'm fairly certain that I will never try to pry a soggy rim out of a 10 year old girl's little fingers. But I can't promise that I'll show the same restraint with my friends or family or even (sadly) my students, because one of these days I might just snap from the frustration. So hold onto your rims tightly my friends ... because SOMETHING will have to break the cycle of (start rolling your "r's" now ...) rrrrrolling up the rrrrrrim for CRRRRRRRAP.