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Why the Grammys Sucked This Year

Come Grammy time, some people sit in front of their wide flat screens with a big bottle of Merlot and an even bigger dress, in hopes of catching some Grammy glam spirit. Personally, I have never been over the moon about an event that rewards already famous singers with a sprinkle of extra attention, and a cherry of private limos, red carpet, and continually unprecedented luxury.
Despite my apathy towards the Grammys, I make a point of watching every year, mostly so I have some go-to topic of conversation when my usual fallback of "How bout that weather?" fails. After this year's event though, I'm proud to say that my ice-breaker topic has gained momentum, because the Grammy's were thoroughly disappointing.
Rather than watching the three-hour event, I've provided you with some Cliff Notes as to why the Grammys were more sub-par than usual. Feel free to use entire sentences when your friends are yammering on about how great everyone looked.

1. Sad,sad songs-- I'm pretty sure those poofy-dressed Grammy-heads I previously described had layers of mascara streaming down their cheeks about half way into the show. Kelly Clarkson's tribute performance of The Tennessee Waltz was beautifully reminiscent, and wonderfully tragic, but also horribly depressing. I don't know about you, but when I watch the Grammys, I usually have super secret hopes that I'll be temporarily swept away into the land of luxury and charm (even if I do think the whole premise of the show is redundant). I definitely couldn't do that with Kelly Clarkson in her funeral black dress cry-singing about some waltz I've never heard of and a time when she felt like a natural woman.
To add insult to injury, Rihanna then busted out a new single Stay, joined by Mikky Ekko, whom I just heard about tonight. Much like Clarkson's song, Rihanna's song had a beautifully tragic sound to it, though it differed from Kelly's in its dark undertones. Again, I was unable to escape into Grammy-land, instead being reminded of the beautiful dysfunction love can bring. No Grammy-get away for me.

2. LL Cool J--I don't really feel the need to elaborate much on this one. He sang a song called "Whaddup" with Travis Barker and captain 99 Bitches. The word "Whaddup" was scrolled across the back-drop over head for most of the performance, in case audiences couldn't make out what was being said. This was considerate of the Grammy Producers, since both Jay-Z and Mr. J were shouting the lyrics, made inaudible by Travis Barker's crazy drum playing and the fact that "Whaddup" is not an actual word, nor intelligent slang. And that classy act was the Grammys final performance. It was clearly meant as a satiric statement about the state of music today. That's my story and I'm running with it.

3. Chris Brown- He's at the bottom of the list because that exactly where he belongs on the celebrity totem pole. In fact, he shouldn't be on the totem pole, but the fact that he is shows how nonchalant the public eye is about abusive douchebags. Apparently everyone's forgotten --and by proxy forgave-- even though Brown is still being violent and losing his temper. Let's not forget, the guy also sports a tattoo of a beaten woman with a striking resemblance to Rihanna, unabashedly. When he is questioned about his previous treatment of his on-again-off-again girlfriend--whom he beat up-- he usually states, "Everybody makes mistakes. But I'm here to talk about my album."
He gives no "I'm sincerely sorry." No tears. No explanation (probably because any attempt at explaining such an atrocity would make him look worse, as it should.). Just blatant signs of zero-remorse and an abundance of some old-time narcissism. Yeah, let's promote the dude further. He seems like he totally deserves it.
I could go on forever about all the millions of implications that Chris Brown being at the Grammys bring, but I'm really busy puking in my mouth over it. The most significant point is that it covey's America's complete lack of awareness and conviction surrounding abuse and people with abusive personalities. Very disheartening.
So, there it is, the reasons why the Grammys this year left a sour taste in my mouth. Better luck next year. Who knows, maybe Rihanna or Kelly will come out with a bubble-gum hit, LL cool J will finally give up the gig and Chris Brown will move to a solitary island.

Stranger Danger

Ever since I can remember, people have stared at me. It’s no wonder: I’m quite cute really, with hair curly enough to open a wine bottle, and I’m small enough to fit into people’s pockets. Oh, and I’m in a wheelchair. So there’s that.
Sometimes little kids point. This warms my heart. A small boy takes his finger out of the treasure hunt happening in his nose to inquire about my machinery. How cute.
What’s not-so-cute is when adults think being in a wheelchair is a green light for chatting up a storm. Eons ago, when I was employed, there was a woman on my bus that put the seat up for me, so that I could back into the wheelchair space. She smiled gleefully, and I nodded, thanking her.
“Oh you’re certainly welcome,” She added, “I love helping disabled people. Everyone should have equal rights.” She smiled again and raised her voice just enough so that the teenagers blaring their headphones at the back of the bus could hear.
She seemed to mean well,even if a little too well, so I nodded again in agreement and deviated my eyes, sipping my coffee mindlessly.
“Some people just don’t understand,” she continued. “They don’t know how hard it is to be disabled”
“Oh, it’s not--” I stopped short. I wasn’t going to change her mind on this 5 minute bus ride.
I guess, in other people’s minds, being in a wheelchair automatically means I’m all-ears for disability. Just like how all gay people are out and proud and waiting to talk about it 24/7. Oh wait.
Last summer, a friend and I were going to meet up with some mutual friends downtown. We both use wheelchairs, and were waiting to cross the street when a guy about 20 interrupted our conversation. “Excuse me, Ladies” he said, “You seem to be having a lot of fun tonight,” I gave my friend a confused he’s-a-creep look and didn’t respond. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I just find it amazing that neither of you are angry considering your situation” My friend and I laughed. I wish more people knew that when you preface a sentence with “I’m not trying to be rude” to a visible minority, with intent of asking them--a perfect stranger--about their "point of difference", you are being rude.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem talking about my disability or disability issues (I have a blog about it, for godsake). What’s problematic is the mistaken assumption that visible disability is an invitation for discussion with any joe blow. It’s not. If you want to know what its like to be disabled, and you don’t have any friends with physical disabilities to ask, use your imagination. Or Google it. Or better yet, try a wheelchair challenge.

When Two Wheelies Hang-Out

A couple years ago,my then-boyfriend and I were scooting around Loblaws on a vicious mission to be successful, full-grown, healthy-eating twenty-somethings. In the thin mac-and-cheese aisle, a woman in her early 50s did a double-take of our side-by-side wheelchairs, caught my eye with her staring and said, “Oh, how cute!”
I’m ridiculously used to this infantile, ignorant reaction when people

see two people in wheelchairs in close proximity. I’ve had best friends in wheelchairs since my second year in university, and I’ve since graduated, so I've pretty much heard it all. Other versions of this awkward proclamation include:

“Awe, isn’t that nice” Is what nice? You think it’s nice that both of us have trouble reaching the top-of-the shelf 2% milk?
And,
“No racing, you two.” Fuck. How did he know my plan? Now I have to leave the pads I was gonna shoplift while racing out of here. Talk about buzzkill.
And of course, my personal, though much over-used favorite:
“Woah, it’s a party in here.” Party? Where? Oh right. Wherever there’s two people in wheelchairs it’s a party. Because we’re that cool, obviously.

Some people in wheelchairs let these uncomfortable reactions rain on their wheelie parade. And they’ve got damn good reason.But me, if I didn’t laugh at it, I’d bawl my eyes out. In the middle of the store. Fall out of my chair into the fetal position. The whole nine-yards.
So I laugh, and say something equally ridiculous like, “I know I’m cute, thank-you” with a big, cheesy smile. It’s the closest I come to “fuck-you.”
Because really, it is intensely patronizing and non-sensical. If you’re lacking perspective on this, just picture a person approaching a bi-racial couple and saying “Don’t you go making too many beautiful mixed-raced babies, you two.” They’d get punched in the face. Or purse-slapped, maybe spit on. Or all three.
Maybe next time I’m out with my friend, and a spectacularly ignorant comment comes my way, I’ll smile my cheesiest and back into them. Yes?

Hysterectomy Hysteria in India: The Booming Scam

For those of you who don’t know, there’s this awful new batch of doctors in India who are scamming women. Their method? Taking their uterus out unnecessarily.
Yes, you heard right. These “doctors” run private practices within low-income Indian communities, and sustain a high customer base because of the collapse of the Indian health care system. Many times a day, a woman with especially harsh menstrual cramps or a treatable bladder infection visit these doctors because the public hospital is not an option, only to be told they need to have an emergency hysterectomy.

As for these fraudulent health care professionals, they make about $200 per unneeded surgery. And when they’re in a hurry because they’ve got other falsely toxic baby making organs to remove, they simply cut along the Sharpie line and then close up, uterus still in place.

Evil at its Finest
BBC recently interviewed one of the many women sucked into this money-making plot, stating that the woman was “rushed to surgery” without even a chance to discuss the matter with her husband or get a second opinion. The article glazes over the fact that the women wasn’t sure of her own age. If you ask me, this is a trademark of a very vulnerable population, without access to public record or other concrete information. BBC claims the woman guestimates her age to be 25.
Which leads me to another disgusting point: majority of the women submitted to have the sham operation are under 40. Last I knew, most hysterectomies, (excluding situations where cancer and terminal illnesses are actually had) were performed upwards of 45. You know, when they are actually required. BBC points this out, noting that many of the hysterectomies done in these private clinics are not always needed.
I wonder if personal financial gain is the only motive, or whether it is, perhaps, also a method of population control. The women that have the operation are often on India’s version of social assistance, recieving roughly $550 per month. With the public hospitals not being able to meet their needs, maybe someone Up Top is hoping these women won’t reproduce and continue to harvest a poorer population.

Something About a Black Kettle
When Jill McGivering, BBC Reporter, asked one doctor about the surgeries and accusations that these women were being rushed into unnecessary operations, he looked up and said, “Oh, those women aren’t telling the truth. Unlike other clinics in the area, mine is ethical.”
This doctor is clearly ethical. Everyone knows that when a group of women have come forward to claim they have all been part of your scam, the right thing to do is just call them all liars. The Ethics Board would totally agree. No need to check in with the women,or to gather proof or anything. Just go back to work. You have a scam surgery to do at 3:00 and you have to be focused to make a fake incision.

To point out the obvious, this a tragic, tragic situation. A systematic abuse of women who are simply seeking medical treatment and instead get looped into a con. Even more sad is to think that it is only one of many. How do we stop these people?

Leave Beyonce Alone

I’m not old enough to remember, but I can only imagine the hysteria that occurred the first time Mick Jagger gyrated in front of a group 60 years ago. Girls probably got crazy giddy, and men probably wanted to be Mick or kill Mick. His dancing, in its context, was a novelty. And 60 years later, people are still naming songs

after him.
Can the same be said for our female artists? Rihanna has Tina Turner legs and emulates some of her moves, yet the best we can do is call her slutty. Christina Aguilera has a voice that can trill longer than a fire engine, and yet people shook their heads and said it was such a “shame” that she “was selling out” when she released Dirty. We commend Chris Brown for getting Michael Jackson’s moon walk, swivel, and crotch grab down to a tee, but bow in judgmental disappointment when Beyonce shakes her hips better than--oh wait, no female from the older generation is famous for hip-shaking because we disapproved of it so much.
Point is, there is still a general attitude within society that frowns upon “scantily clad women” with “skanky moves” (*cringe*) , claiming that it takes away from their talent/image/self-worth. This is a sad mistake on society’s part. To not accept a woman fully because of her choice to show skin is to make her choice to do so less important than your method of judgment. If we were to respect a woman who had decided to dress revealingly and shake her hips, we respect her full package, skin-baring and all--the way that we receive shirtless, gyrating Adam Lavigne.
The most recent proof of this blatant disrespect is Beyonce’s halftime Superbowl performance. A couple of my Facebook contacts commented that the star was “trashy” and "slutty". One even said the only thing missing from her performance was a stripper pole, which, as if that’s not bad enough, was reinforced by many “Likes”. The fact that we, as social media users with so much freedom of speech, still resort to old standards of oppressive judgemnt saddens me. In my opinion, Beyonce bared a lot of skin- and danced her beautiful ass off. She werked it to her souls content and blew everyone’s mind with her marathon dancing. She sang like it was the last day singing was allowed in our free country, and somehow, throughout all this, she didn’t cough up any blood or faint. She was amazing. And God, I wish I could wear that get-up and look half as sexy.
In the music video for her song, “Run the World,” Beyonce and countless backup dancers are dancing in a sandbank, asserting that girls do, in fact, run the world. For the entire video, Beyonce is wearing sexy outfit after sexy outfit, and still dancing to keep the world going. It’s clear then, that to some extent, Beyonce has chosen to run the world and be damn hot all at once. So we should stop judging her so much. Because honestly, if you want her to put on more clothes and shake less because you can’t listen to what she’s singing, that’s on you, guys.

The Wheelchair Sign

I almost always feel a great relief every time a white stick-figure wheelchair person sits on the door of a public establishment. Especially when entering an average-joe restaurant or a club. It’s confirmation, it's acceptance, the anti-apartheid of the disabled. It says, with all its straight white lines and blue brushstrokes, “We not only thought about you, we accept you, we welcome your business, and for you to do your business.”

Every time I see that beloved sign, I feel not only relieved but proud. “Times of change” I think, happy that I live in the 21st century. Unfortunately, the symbol doesn’t always produce what it advertises. Take today for example:
I was at this quaint little shack of a restaurant, enjoying some Chinese food and ambient mood-lighting with a friend when nature called. I usually hate this part of the day. In my mind, I started mapping out all the near-by accessible washrooms and planning my graceful exit. As I prepared to leave with my friend, I gave the restaurant a one-over, just in case. And to my pleasant surprise, a big blue sign appeared like a trophy, just off of the kitchen. Once inside the bathroom, however, I saw that the sign wasn’t telling the full truth. In this particular instance, the restaurant, though being equipped with ample space and a horizontal metal bar, preferred to use the bathroom as a storage room. Determined not to give up on the truthiness of my favourite symbol, I squished my chair in between a shelving unit (which took up about a quarter of the room’s area), a high -chair, a big, fancy toilet paper holder which was standing on the ground right beside the toilet, and, of course, the toilet itself. Thankfully, given my level of mobility, I was still able to use the bathroom. But I am entirely mindful that many others--say those with bigger chairs or paralysis--would not be so fortunate.

I have also encountered the strangest declarations of accessibility at bars. For any of you club-goers in wheelchairs, you might know that The Honest Lawyer’s accessible bathroom is truly bizarre. In that Ladies’ Room, there is a fourth stall at the end of three, which displays a wheelchair sign. It opens from the side and reveals itself to be impossibly narrow, despite being longer than the others. And when I say impossibly narrow, I’m not exaggerating. My manual chair--which I prefer to use in club situations, is one of the thinnest chairs available to people of my height-- doesn’t fit inside the stall, at any angle. This leaves me with two options I am all too familiar with: 1) Don’t pee--don’t you even think about breaking the seal, and 2) Thank your lucky stars that you have a friend with you whom you trust enough to see your secret triangle without dying of embarrassment. Though I am often blessed with the second option, it hardly means the stall is accessible. This specific wheelchair sign should really be modified to include an able-bodied person helping the wheelie, or just take their sign down altogether.

The second baffling claim of washroom accessibility that sticks out in my mind is in The Grand in The Market. The waiters there will kindly lead you to their accessible side entrance to get inside, and notify you of their accessible bathroom when asked. Both of these things are just dandy, as it shows that at least some employers have received the disability training that was supposed to be enforced by the Ontarians with Disabilities Act. Once pointed in the direction of the sitting stick-man though, things are not so smooth. The stall is spacious, but the toilet is placed very near to the bathroom door, leaving very limited room for a wheelchair, let alone the person inside of it. Much to my dignity’s dismay, I had to pee with the door open that day, a privilege usually only awarded to small children and pregnant women who constantly have nurses looking in on them. Roomy enough for three toilets, but not for one wheelchair in between the toilet and the door is less than accessible, and probably doesn’t meet standard accessibility regulations.
So next time you’re taking a nice little tinkle in the wheelchair stall (you know who you are), check out the logistics. Could Artie from Glee really fit his chair and himself in here?