Tin machine, tin machine, take me anywhere.

It's early morning as I head out into the fog. Walking down the long, tree-lined path through the lush green park to the bus stop, I'm aware of feeling like I don't want to go to work. The grind is getting to me. I could really use an adventure right about now. Something to inspire me, to get my blood pumping, to give me new things to think and dream about.

I'm thinking about Europe. I never did finish my European tour back in 2004. I always figured I'd go back. The planet felt so small and navigable back then, but since returning to Canada ten years ago, the distance to the rest of the world seems to have increased somehow. 

What if I didn't catch this bus? What if I cross the street instead and go the other way, to the subway station, and then to the airport...

My fantastic scheme is interrupted by an unexpected discovery near the end of the path. It's a machine. Some kind of vehicle, I assume. Made of dull light metal, tarnished and dark, with an upright cylindrical construction, it's like a tin can on tiny wheels.

I wonder what's inside? I envision a TARDIS-like room, larger than this construction can possibly contain, serving as a futuristic control centre. Opening the door, I'm disappointed to find more tarnished metal and air that smells vaguely of beef vegetable soup. The door closes behind me, but little cracks of light are visible. It's barely tall enough for me to stand up inside, and there is no seat, so I have to stoop just the tiniest bit. What a rip off. I'm not going anywhere in this thing. 

Thinking I have time to get to work, I exhale into the soupy atmosphere and try to open the door, but it's stuck. Ugh, seriously? I push and push, and then kick and kick at the door, but to no avail. Frustrated and not able to do much else, I curse, cross my arms and glare angrily in the cracklight. 

Then the door opens, but just a bit, like it's been ajar all this time, like a gentle breeze has pulled on it ever so slightly. Fuck you, tin can door. You're the worst.

Exiting the soup can, I'm aware that I'm still in the same place, but everything looks different, older, ruined, falling apart. The trees are dead, the grass is sparse and brown, and there is garbage everywhere, decorating the lifeless branches, littering the park path. The sky is overcast and the clouds have the appearance of being shit stained. Come to think of it, the air smells shitty, too.

There's my bus. I run to catch it. Downtown I go. I look around at my fellow passengers. People on the bus don't usually look like they're having the time of their lives, but these people look downright sad, downtrodden, beaten. I pull out my iPhone to check the time and call work to tell them I'll be a bit late. No service. Wtf?

To pass the time, I grab the Metro paper on the seat next to me. The date on the paper makes my mouth run dry and my stomach leap up into my throat - it's today's date... but the year is 2039.

So wait... that shitty soup can on wheels is a time machine after all? And of all the places and times it could take me to, I hopped forward 25 years in exactly the same place? Lame. It could have at least been a DeLorean with a flux capacitor. I deserve at least that much.

(Amazingly, I couldn't find a video for Tin Machine anywhere on the interwebs. 

So here it is on Grooveshark.)

The bus drops me off in downtown Toronto. I have a love-hate relationship with this city. Growing up in Northern Ontario, I knew I wanted to live here when I grew up. Coming to visit as a kid, it was magical to me. The size of it, the people, the shops, the streets... everything dazzled and sparkled with the hope and promise of a fantastic kind of life. 

I thought I was going to be like Picasso, painting pictures all the live long day and selling them to people who would hang them on their wall, and brag about owning a Shelley Zarudenec original. And they'd have all my books, too... the complete library of my contributions to the literary world. And they'd go see my Oscar-winning films and then come to my concerts where I would sing for the delighted masses. Big dreams for a little girl. And all I had to do was move to Toronto. It was that simple.

Obviously, things didn't turn out quite like that. Toronto didn't turn out quite like that, not even in 2014. Now in 2039, I'm shocked and saddened to see a city that has achieved a stunning decrepitude. A thick film of melancholy covers the buildings, the sidewalks, and the people as they shuffle hopelessly to work, home, shopping, nowhere. 

At Yonge and Dundas Square, CityPulse24 flashes on the billboard sized TV screen. The headlines appear barely long enough to read them. I learn that the newly elected mayor has published a memoir describing his sinister deeds and rise to power. Mayor Rob Ford's legacy is that in the future, we no longer expect our leaders to be better than ourselves, inevitably leading to the ruin of our cities. I look out over the empty square. Someone has scrawled the words Crack City over the old Toronto city logo on the old ticket booth.

As the headlines continue to flash, I discover that the same is true for Canada as a whole. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has long since passed the torch to his successor, and the federal Conservative party has retained power consecutively across these 25 years over which I've skipped. Always elected democratically, of course, but if you were an outsider, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a dictatorship.

Conspiracy theories abound. One popular theory is that the Liberal, NDP and Green parties are actually factions of the Conservative party, orchestrating an official Conservative win at each election. What happens to those whose ideals lean toward social policy? They defect... or go missing. Once known for our generous hospitality and welcoming nature, the nation has all but closed its borders to migrants from other lands, and has moved toward marginalizing those who weren't born Canadian. My heart is sick and sad.

A small group of people begins to form in the square. They're carrying signs and it looks like they're about to begin some kind of protest. They call themselves the Laytonist Party - obviously the deceased federal NDP leader Jack Layton is their hero. They're disorganized and a bit meek for a protest group. Their barely audible chants of worship for their working class hero are easily drowned out by the sounds of endless traffic.

In 2039, I am 63 years old. I assume that I'm still alive, and despite the paradox of meeting oneself in the future, I decide to try and find myself to see what I can learn about the last 25 years and to find out how I can make the most of them when... if... I return to 2014.

Phone books don't exist anymore, of course. I see a lot of people walking around adorned with wearable tech. Would someone be kind enough to google me on their device? Not that I expect to find an address, but maybe I can at least find out if I'm still in Toronto. 

But people are keeping their heads down, and the few I try to speak to refuse my request or simply ignore me and continue on their way. Frustrated and beginning to feel hopeless, I begin walking west on Dundas Street, being rejected by citizen after citizen in the search for someone who will help me find myself.

Suddenly, a homeless man stops me in my tracks. Witnessing my pleas for help, he tells me that he has only got a few eCredits left on his watch, but I can use them if I'm desperate. I decide I'm not desperate enough to accept this man's generosity. Instead, I give him a $5 note and, a few loonies and toonies, and some other change. He chuckles at my offering, saying he hasn't seen the likes of these in years. He hopes the stores will still accept them. He wishes me well and hurries off back to the patch of sidewalk he calls home.

I'm feeling a bit aimless. Normally I'd go exploring, but I'm afraid of what I will find. So instead I follow my new friend over to his makeshift condo, and ask him if I can hang out with him for a little while. He happily obliges, and over the next couple of hours, I learn about his life, and how he came to be on the streets.

It was all because of a girl. A girl that he loved so much that he feared losing her every minute of his waking life. A girl he swore to protect from the evils of the world. A girl he couldn't leave, despite the ruin his life was becoming in trying to keep her safe. A girl named Dahlia... his daughter.

One day his wife just didn't come home, leaving him to care for little Dahlia. Then he lost his job, and began dealing drugs to earn an income. The government came and took Dahlia away from him, and he was arrested. When he finished his time, he was released into the world with no where to go, and this is where I found him.

I ask him if he tried to reconnect with Dahlia since his parole. Sadly, he tells me that he doesn't want to know. Instead, he has chosen to believe that she has gone to live with a family in a home filled with love and security and that she's forgotten all about the heartbreak she endured as a young child. He has no idea if it is true, but choosing to believe it is what keeps him alive.

It begins to rain and the man, whose name I have learned is James, moves to the bus shelter to keep dry. I thank him for talking with me and descend into Toronto's underground PATH.

I always manage to get lost in the PATH. Having no clue where I am, I decide to go back up to get my bearings. I emerge in the Eaton Centre, and make my way out to the street. The rain has stopped and the streets are slick and steamy. As I walk by City Hall, I see a young couple sitting at one of the chess tables, kissing like their lives depend on it. Normally I'd be annoyed by such a public display of affection, but in the context of this gloom, it's actually heartening to see that even in the worst of times, love finds a way.

Suddenly I'm aware that I'm gawking at them, and I turn my gaze away just as the boy puts his hand up his girl's skirt. I hurry away, head down, but smiling with the realization that some things never change. Love is a beautiful thing, but we're all here because two people had sex.

Continuing west on Queen St., I see that the shop and restaurant names have changed, but in a way it all still looks the same. The old CTV/MUCH building still has that car half hanging out of the wall as if it's crashed through, the wheel still spinning. There's a TV in the window at street level playing CTV's signature entertainment news show, eTalk. Ben Mulroney's been replaced by someone who looks the spitting image of him, only much younger, of course. I'm sure he's retired by now.

They're talking about a young new "it" girl. I didn't catch her name, but I learn that she rose to fame by banging some pop star and posting their sex tape on the Internet. Now she has a reality show in which a film crew follows her around while she goes shopping and talks on her phone. She's only 17 years old, but the clubs let her in because she's good for business. Someone on the program calls her a savvy entrepreneur. I just about throw up on the sidewalk. 

Then I find out her name. Dahlia Something.

God forbid anyone becomes well known for contributing something through talent or intelligence anymore. This is how you get your 15 minutes, people.

Next up on eTalk: The story of Canada's most famous serial killer. He grew up idolizing Canadian killing stars Paul Bernardo, Luka Magnotta, and Dellen Millard. He always knew he would someday take his place among them. He knew he had what it takes: charm, good looks, street smarts, and a raging case of undiagnosed, unbridled psychopathy. At the age of 18, Carys Stewart began posting videos of his intricately planned and executed murders on his blog, The SK Chronicles, and got away with it for months by shooting his videos creatively and making the whole thing look like a fictional web series.

Sure, people were horrified to learn they'd been tuning in to watch him actually kill actual people, but he had also attracted a loyal fan base. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole, inciting his fans to protest and inspiring them to start copy cat blogs. Carys Stewart admits he always knew he'd get arrested someday, but he's proud of his contributions to the SK hall of fame.

The eTalk segment includes a screenshot of Stewart's blog, and it appears to be written in some kind of jibberish I can't understand - a nonsensical mishmash of letters, numbers, symbols and emoticons strung together in a way that almost looks like a code. And then I realize this is the evolution of the English language. It sounds the same, but now it looks like this:

ZOMGGG u giz,,, hav such goo d nooz 4 u 2dayyyyyy XD XD XD Nu vid 2B postd sooooon!!! Loveeee MR CARYSma =^..^=

I hate 2039. I want to go back to 2014 where things are fucked up but not as bad as this. Maybe I can do something about it, something to stop it. If only I knew where to find my 63-year-old self before heading back to my soup can time machine.

And then there I am, walking toward me from the west. I look old and a bit different, but I have no doubt. I can feel it. My own energy getting closer and closer, filling me up with... I don't know how else to describe it, but... it's like I'm filling up with my own selfness. With every step 63-year-old me takes in my direction, I know more and more about myself. I am brimming with my own light and truth. No drug in the world feels like this.

As we meet, we don't need to embrace or even talk. I know everything she's... everything I'm thinking. I didn't need to go looking for her. She knew where to find me. Of course she did. She's been waiting for this. 25 years pass just like an evening at the circus. The advice she imparts to me without uttering a word changes me forever.

There isn't anything I can do about the state of this city, this country that I love so much, in 2039. I'm only one person and it's out of my hands. But I'm not altogether powerless. I can't control what others do, but I can control what I do. I can vote. I can give. I can be kind. And I can write, and draw, and sing, and paint. And if I don't do those things, I'm sacrificing myself. 

I owe it myself and to the world to go out and use the brain and the talents that I have to make something, to put something new into the world, to contribute. It won't stop 2039 from happening. But the world will be 0.01% better because of it, and that's not nothing.

*****

So, Tin Machine then. I like this album. I don't love it, but I like it a lot. It's not profound or groundbreaking, but it gave me a lot to think about. Like the future. And when I think about the future, I think about what kinds of things I will have contributed to the world. Never has "making something" been more important to me than it has been in recent months.

When I was a kid, I was generally involved in one of four activities: daydreaming, writing, drawing, or singing. This is a bit embarrassing, but I did sort of have this feeling like I was special, or something. Like I was destined for some kind of greatness. I don't think it was narcissism... I think that my parents just did an amazing job of telling me I was a better artist, writer, singer, etc. than I really was. I was certain that I was going to make a living doing one of those things, if not all of them, and that I was going to be famous for it.

Then I grew up and life got in the way. I stopped dreaming, essentially, and got down to the business of trying to pay rent and buy groceries, and have a bit of fun in the meantime.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about art, and creativity, and making stuff. I no longer have dreams of fame and fortune, but the need to make something, to put something out into the world, just for the sake of it, has become pervasive in my thoughts. This blog fills that need to some degree... giving myself a little creative writing assignment every couple of weeks fueled by Bowie albums has been good for me, I think. 

But I have another more long-term project that I'm working on, and I'm most excited about it. Not too many people know about it, and I'm fine with that. One day I shall unleash it upon the world. It shall get no attention whatsoever, except from the people who love me. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I've made the world 0.01% better. 

Because every time a piece of art is made, whether it ends up hanging in a gallery, sold on Etsy, or hanging on a fridge in a family kitchen, the world is improved. And that's why you should write a poem. Or play the guitar. Or shoot a short film on your mobile device. Or draw a picture. It doesn't matter who sees it. It doesn't matter how good it is. It doesn't matter how long it took. All that matters is that you made something.

Finally, before I sign off today, I just want to say that Tin Machine felt... Canadian to me. Isn't that weird? Some of the songs... I Can't Read, especially, remind me of the Tragically Hip. I listened to a bunch of The Hip to see if there was a particular song that I was thinking of, but I couldn't find one specifically. It's really just a Tragically Hip kind of feeling. And I think that in some way that feeling inspired this post as well.

Mommy, come back 'cause the water's all gone.

I'm lying on the ceiling, on what feels like a mattress. It's oddly comfortable. Some kind of reverse gravity is pulling me deeper and deeper up into the cushiony softness.

 I open my eyes to find that I'm actually in bed. Funny how your mind can trick you, especially when you're as sick as I am. My throat is so swollen and sore that I can't swallow. My pillow is wet from saliva. My entire body aches, and I'm shivering uncontrollably despite the 104 fever burning inside. I am the definition of wretched.

I close my eyes, and I'm on the ceiling again. I'm not crazy about being up here, but I can barely keep my eyes open, so I guess I don't have much choice.

I'm actually not sure how long I've been like this. I keep waking up and passing out again, and the shadows in the room change each time I open my eyes.  Days... weeks... months... years?

I'm vaguely aware of being alive, so it can't have been longer than a couple of days. I don't remember the last time I got up to pee or had a drink of water. I wish my mom was here. Sick and alone is a bad combination. What if I die? How long will it take for someone to find me? Will my cat eat my face? Where is my phone? All very important questions. Delirious or not, I need to take action.

My eyelids feel like they're being pressed down by mean, rough phantom hands. I glide my arms over the bed, feeling around for my phone to call my mom. She doesn't even live in the same city as me, but she needs to know I'm probably not going to make it.  This flu has "RIP Shelley Z" written all over it. H1RIPSZ. Wasn't it in the news? Regardless, my mom will save me. She'll know what to do. The soothing hand that turned me round, a love so real swept over me.

What's that thing in my hand? It feels like a phone. I push the on button and pry my eyes open just enough to scan my contacts for my mother's number. Tap. Hello? I hear her voice on the other end, but I can't understand what she's saying, like she's speaking another language. I pause for a moment and try to put the sounds together in my head.

I think she's asked me if I've had any water to drink in the last eight hours. Hmm, I'm going to have to think very hard about this. Finally, I request clarification: "Mommy, what's eight hours?"

Things start to go dark. The phone slips out of my hand and suddenly I'm listening to another voice. A man's voice. He's describing the child-rearing habits of a creature known as the glass spider. David Attenborough, is that you? Thank God. Will you please bring me some water?

Sweet mother of Jesus, what the fuck was that? Sick dreams are so messed up. Coming to, I feel like I'm floating in a putrid sea of my own perspiration. Has my fever finally broken? I try to swallow some saliva, but to no avail. My bed is disgusting, and I simply cannot continue to lay here in this gross sweat pool. But I don't have the energy to change the sheets. Somehow, I need to get myself over to the couch. I sit up, but I'm too dizzy, and I crash back down onto the bed.

My kidneys ache. Dehydration. I force myself to swallow. Red hot razors slice my throat as they work their way down the narrow passage. Tears break from my eyes. God fucking damn that hurts. But you know what? I'm over this. This is not how I die. Holding onto the dresser for support, I pull myself over the edge of the bed and onto my feet. Hugging the wall, I shuffle to the kitchen, my head banging like it's being hammered by a thousand mallets. I pour a glass of tap water and brace myself against the pain of swallowing it.

Within seconds, intense nausea gives way to relief, and bit of strength returns. I make my way to the couch. It's nice to be awake for a change. Maybe now that my fever has broken, I'll start feeling better. I decide to open my laptop and check in with the world and see what's new.

Good news is hard to find. Ebola is rampaging its way through Africa and threatening to emigrate. Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 passengers are returning to their homes in body bags. Israel's bombing the Gaza Strip. The mayor of my city is an admitted crack addict who has astonishingly managed to retain voter support of 30%, and my preferred candidate is losing support. America still thinks it can change the Middle East. And Kim Kardashian did something that doesn't matter. If it wasn't for her, you'd think it was still 1987.

I've been online for only a few minutes, but my eyes are already getting heavy again, and the dreaded full-body fatigue is kicking back in. What's more, my fever seems to be returning. I close my laptop and prostrate myself on the couch to rest.

The sick dreams begin again, one after another. It begins with the plight of a homeless woman who is trying to find money to feed herself and her child.It turns out, her child has been exposed to radiation and is tragically suffering from debilitation deformities.

The child's mother has turned to the streets to make her living, and she winds up in a relationship with a hopeless heroin addict. He promises to kick the stuff and turn their lives around. They promise each other that this will be their last trip before they begin their new lives. Her child plays with a discarded needle in the next room.

4:05ish - Bowie on roller skates playing a guitar solo.

1:30ish - David Bowie gets beat up by mean dancers.

I wake from these dreams with my fever raging anew and nausea so intense that I'm unable to make it to the bathroom before the water I've drunk projects violently from my mouth to the floor. Nowhere in the world is as comfortable as this patch of hardwood beneath my hands and knees, so I slide down to my belly and close my eyes again.

And I'm out. I descend into another bizarre sick dream. I'm happily walking around the streets of downtown Manhattan. The sky is blue, the day is warm, and everything is technicolour happy. And then I realize I'm naked. Embarrassed, I duck into a clothing store to try to find something to wear, but I can't seem to get the clothes on my body. I put on a shirt, only to get lost inside it, unable to find the sleeves or the collar. 

Throwing the shirt to the floor in frustration, I attempt to slide my legs into some pants, but I keep missing the pant legs. Trying to get into these pants, I'm stumbling around the shop like I'm doing some kind of ridiculous dance. The shopgirl says she likes the beat of my drum.

Suddenly I find myself standing on a gigantic pedestal in the middle of the Hudson River. Gigantic, naked, and looming, I feel a hand caress my back. Suddenly the hand, big and turquoise, slides around to my breast. I turn around to see Lady Liberty herself leaning in for a kiss. She kisses well, for a statue, and I'm rather enjoying this. But wait... what's she doing... no! Dear God, not the torch!

 I look out into the harbour to see a water taxi crammed with tourists watching me get torched by Lady Liberty, each one with their phone in the air, instagramming this monumental sight for posterity. I can even hear the tour guide describing our every move, the majestic gift from France and her Canadian companion, giving New York an eye-full. 

The sun sets behind us and the tourists begin to scream wildly as the tour guide announces that the band they have all come to see is about to hit the stage. The pedestal grows in size and suddenly I find myself at the microphone with Lady Liberty next to me, wailing away on the guitar. Behind me, I can barely make out the other members of my band, they're faceless and blurry, but we all perform together in perfect unison a rock 'n' roll song for the people on the ferry. Tonight the Zeroes were singing for you. Maybe this dream isn't so bad after all. I look down... yep, still naked.

I wake up screaming as I'm suddenly immersed in ice cold water. I'm in my bathroom, in the tub, my pyjamas clinging to me wetly. I glance around the room, trying to find the culprit. Then I see her. My mom. I knew she'd come to save me.

*****

This flu story  is based on true events. Once, when I was living alone, I got so sick that I was basically bed-bound for five days with a fever that kept breaking and then coming back, and glands so swollen that I couldn't swallow my own spit.

Eventually, my boyfriend-at-the-time came over to find out why I had vanished from existence, and we had a conversation in which I actually remember my own delirium and complete inability to comprehend his words. I actually did respond to his question of "have you had any water in the last eight hours?" with a confused reply of "what's eight hours?". He took me to the hospital, and I remember telling him to watch out for the pine trees crossing the road. At the hospital, I told the nurse not to worry because there were plenty of nachos to go around.

It's scary to be that sick and to be alone, unable to take basic care of yourself.

Anyway, I sort of feel the need to apologize for this post. Not my best work, I admit. Incoherent mess, is more like it. I can't say exactly why "sick in bed with the flu" is where this album took me.  Never Let Me Down didn't exactly imbue me with the kind of inspiration that usually happens when I'm listening to a Bowie album.

After doing my standard research at the beginning of the listening period and finding out that Never Let Me Down is universally considered Bowie's worst album (including by him), I dove in with pretty low expectations. Sadly, my expectations were met. Having said that, I didn't totally hate everything about it. I'm not going to criticize someone who improved the world by pretty much consistently making awesome and innovative music over the course of 50 years with only a few exceptions. My creative contributions to the world are amoebic in comparison.

Most of this album won't make it into my playlist. I found the socially conscious lyrics didn't jive with the light, poppy, Huey Lewis-style music. This album contains my least favourite Bowie lyric so far: I've touched down with vermin, cowardice, lice. That's just lovely. Obviously it's supposed to be icky, and I get what he was doing with Shining Star (Makin' My Love). Normally I like it when there is a contrast between lyrical themes and music styles, but this just made me go "eww". Also, Mickey Rourke rapping? I'm noping that so hard.

A handful of songs will make it into my iTunes rotation. Despite its generic 80's vibe, I really like Zeroes. It does what it's supposed to do. It makes me happy. And the album's title track has good things going for it. It's so personal and hopeful. And you know what? Despite its ridiculousness, I'm taking Glass Spider with me, even if it sounds like Bowie trying too hard to be... well... himself. Maybe that's what I like about it. He's still in there. Glass Spider may be a bit comical, but it harkens back to a time before the mid-80's when Bowie was all about putting his weirdness out there. 

Weird Bowie = good Bowie.

I'll twirl and I'll tumble.

The sky is bright blue and the sun is hot here in Miami. I'm standing on the dock, shielding my eyes as I look up at the enormous cruise ship. My fellow passengers are boarding hastily, but as the ship looms before me, I feel my knees weaken and very nearly give out. I never have been a fan of boats or sailing. (I know, I know, it's not a boat, it's a ship. I got it.)

But I'm here, like it or not. And far be it from me to fight where the music takes me. For the most part, I do like it. Cruises may not be my ideal method of travel, but travel is my ideal method of living, so I decide to just go with it.

I board the ship just behind a newlywed couple holding hands and dragging their luggage behind them like some kind of human steam rolling, clothesline machine. It takes less than a minute to climb the steps to the ship's deck, and they've kissed ten times. Note to self: as soon as you get on the deck, get as far away from them as you can.

From the ship's deck, I look out over the vast blue ocean stretching out for eons to the east. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago I caught my connecting flight from Toronto to New York, and now I'm here, about to set sail to the Caribbean islands. From Central Park to Shanty Town. I make the mistake of looking down over the balcony where the water laps at the ship's base. I shouldn't have done that. There go my knees again. Ugh, and my stomach, too.

I move away from the railing and deposit my luggage in my room before finding the nearest bar. A cocktail ought to settle my nerves and relax my mind. The ship honks its horn and we're officially off. I take a seat in an Adirondack chair (at home we call them Muskoka chairs), sip my fruity-coconutty beverage and close my eyes to the warm sun, listening to the chilled out reggae band playing nearby as we set sail for Jamaica.

Suddenly, the shrill chatter of the newlywed couple assaults my ears as they squeal and coo childishly at each other.  They're wearing matching Bride and Groom t-shirts and brandishing their wedding bands like shiny new revolvers in the wild west. I have nothing against the newly united, but these two are just over the top, dripping with love and sentiment, smearing themselves across the scenery like blobs of Valentine red and pink paint. If our love song could fly over mountains...

Mister and Missus are taking selfies over the deck's railing. It's windy, and I have visions of them losing their iPhones over the side. The devil in me relishes the thought, but then the angel in me knees my devil in the vagina and offers to take a photo of them.

They thank me profusely for my deed, and I make my way to the bar for another drink. I can already feel the island rhythms limbering my body, loosening my joints, lubricating my soul. While waiting in line for my cocktail, I begin to sway to the reggae music. I can't help myself.

Unfortunately, my moment of relaxed abandon is interrupted by raised and heated voices. A Christian, an Atheist, and a Scientologist are sitting at the bar... oh, you've heard that one before? Alright then. They're having an argument, of course, and I'm wondering if they met on this cruise by chance or if they came here together, three friends with different perspectives, believing the strangest things, loving one another despite their differences, but not afraid to tell it like they see it.

As interesting as the debate is, I don't have a head for it right now. I down my drink as the ship docks at the Jamaican port of Negril, and I disembark the vessel for my first shore excursion. Exploring the town, I'm lovestruck by the island's vibe and the friendliness of its inhabitants. I find myself a quaint patio for some refreshment, and a beautiful woman wearing a perma-smile and a name tag that says "Jean" brings me a deliciously cold Red Stripe. She's dressed head to toe in denim, and one of the locals calls her Blue Jean, simultaneously teasing and flirting with her. Everyone calls her that, she says, on account of her denim wardrobe - the fabric of her existence. She teases right back with acid washed comebacks. Sometimes I feel like the whole human race is jazzin' for Blue Jean.

I'm finished my Red Stripe and about to do some more exploring, when who should find me but The Newlyweds, clinging to each other and oozing cloying weddedness from every pore. They sit down at my table and I inform them that they can have it to themselves, since I'm moving on. They insist that I stay and have dinner with them - apparently this pub dishes up some of the finest jerk chicken in the country.

I'm not picky, but I can think of about a million other island delicacies I would prefer over anything in the jerk category. Still, I am hungry and could perhaps enjoy hearing how Mister and Missus met and tied the knot - knowing their story will surely make spending the next several days with them more tolerable.

It was love at first sight (of course). It was her first time at the gym. He gave her the tour. She said she needed a personal trainer. He said he couldn't be hers, on account of the conflict of interest. What conflict of interest? she wanted to know. Gym staff aren't permitted to be romantically involved with their clients. But we're not... oh. Oh! Ohhhhhhhh. (I just threw up in my mouth a little. Good thing I like Red Stripe.)

That was a month ago. They eloped in Vegas earlier this week. Now here they are.  They raise their cocktail glasses in honour of each other. To us! they exclaim. Holding their drinks in the air, they look at me expectantly and wait for me to raise my beer bottle for a little clinky-clinky action. Cheers! I say, toasting my new friends, God love them. And with that, the jerkiest chicken my nostrils ever beheld arrives, served  up by smiling Blue Jean, plates balanced up her arms before being slung skillfully onto the table before us.

I begin to dig in, but Mister insists we give thanks to the Big Mister in the Sky for this meal. Sighing silently, I lay my fork down and close my eyes and listen to the prayer. Mister is thankful not only for the food and Blue Jean's nimble delivery of it, but he's ever so thankful for the Missus at his side, she beaming uncomfortably with a wide grin and expressionless eyes. He waits for her to echo his sentiment, and she does. God only knows what I'd be without you.

Turning their faces to me, I exclaim "Amen!" and we finally begin our meal. It's the best jerk chicken I've ever eaten in my life.

After dinner, I bid adieu to The Newlyweds  in search of a suitable location for a me party (what can I say? I enjoy my own company). I happen upon a happening little place with a band playing and people dancing. This is where I shall spend my evening. I trade in the Red Stripe for rum and juice, and let island rhythm carry me away, twirling and tumbling on the dance floor. Until, of course, the newlyweds find me, yet again.

I keep my distance while they make like Swayze and Grey on the dance floor. Thankfully, there is no chance of making accidental eye contact, since their gazes are fixed, unblinking, upon each other.

Fine, let them have their moment. I'm having mine anyway. Rum + reggae + dancing = bliss. Everything's gonna be alright tonight.

It's late, and I'm drunk and disheveled. I've enjoyed my evening of partying with myself, the locals, and some other tourists. I made a game out of guessing how many times the newlyweds would crash into other revelers on the dance floor with their exaggerated dance moves, spilling and knocking drinks clean out of people's hands. I stopped counting at 10. I don't think they noticed even one.

I stumble back to the cruise ship with the help of another fellow tourist, and crash down into bed. Tonight was a good night. Tomorrow we set sail for the Dominican Republic.

*****

I awake with a banging headache, the heat of the morning already feeling oppressive. I throw some water down my throat and dress before making my way up to the main deck for some fresh air. Upon my arrival, I sense that something is not quite right. The other tourists, including my friend from last night's party, all seem to be as confused as I am. We're clearly bobbing up and down next to a tropical looking island, but it feels like another part of the world.

It is another part of the world. The ship's captain announces that over night, we somehow went adrift, and we've sailed through an oceanic wormhole, carrying us to the other side of the word: Borneo. Oceanic wormhole, you say? Is that a thing? For real? Like the Bermuda Triangle or something? But we weren't even close to... ah, forget it. There is so much we don't know about the world, and the ocean in particular.

The captain tells us we must dock here temporarily. We're allowed to disembark, but we do so with caution. The local indigenous Iban people are friendly, but rainforest life is challenging, and we must watch out for wild orangutans. There are no hotels or resorts in the immediate area, but tribal longhouses are a popular tourist attraction. The captain tells us we must be back on the ship by dusk.

Finally, a real adventure! I decide to take a shore excursion into the nearby village. The captain was right - the people are friendly, gracious and welcoming, though busy. They seem to be preparing for some kind of festival, with bright coloured costumes being sewn and patched. I hear the word Gawai uttered in conversation. I don't know what it means, but it seems to be a joyful word, bringing smiles and laughter and excitement to those who make say it. They can barely restrain themselves from dancing as they prepare. They twirl and they tumble. I like the free world. They say it's pretty this time of year.

It turns out that Gawai is the word for festival. I am invited to join a local family as they prepare for the celebration - I help tidy the longhouse, and help prepare food, and visit the graveyard with the family to bring offerings to the dead. They invite me to take part in the evening's festivities, but I tell them I must decline in order to get back to the ship on time.

Before I leave, the family's teenage daughter sneaks me a piece of traditional cake and some rice wine, and she shows me her beautifully detailed costume. She plays some traditional music and we dance together on the edge of the jungle, our own little private celebration. Suddenly, we're interrupted by a teenage boy from the village. She doesn't seem to like him much, but he seems to like her a lot. I don't like him at all, there's something off about him. He makes me nervous. Look at his eyes, did you see his crazy eyes?

David Bowie - Neighborhood Threat - Zapkolik - zapkolik.com

The lad convinces my new surrogate sister to give him the last of her rice wine. I give him mine, too, and she speaks to him angrily. He stomps off, but I get the feeling this is just one moment of an ongoing drama between them.

Sadly, I bid farewell to my host family and return to the ship. It's in a terrible state - something has obviously damaged it during our journey through the wormhole, and the ship looks to be taking on water, anchored lopsidedly off shore. I stand with my fellow tourists looking at the ship in dismay.

Just then, the newlyweds emerge from the jungle yelling obscenities at each other. Apparently Missus caught Mister making out with one of the head locals' daughters. For her part, Missus was wooed by a tattered Playboy t-shirt-wearing local man, encouraging her to stay on the island. She wasn't considering it at the time, but now she might just do it. Though I know in my heart we're drifting apart, can't believe that our love is dead.

See all music videos David Bowie

A sweet silence falls over Mister and Missus as they join the rest of us in looking at our sinking ship, wondering what's going to happen now. Dusk turns into evening, and evening turns into night. The joyful sounds of the Gawai in the nearby village beckon me to return. I turn my back on the ship and hurry away from the crowd of stranded tourists, back in the direction of my new surrogate family.

*****

This album is a fun mix of covers and originals. If Tonight was an all you can eat cruise ship buffet, it would be filled with all of the most delectable and bad for you things you can think of... pizza, fried chicken, banana splits, cakes and chocolates. If there is any nutrition at all, it comes in the form of fresh tropical fruit like mangoes and pineapples. You couldn't live on it forever, but damn it's a good little vacation from the everyday grind. Of course, filling up on all that sugar means you have to go and dance it off after.

One of the reasons this album is maybe a bit "nutritionally devoid" is that it seems to have the highest concentration of love songs on any Bowie album so far. Love songs aren't necessarily bad, and Bowie's love songs are better than most, but the sentimentality is still a bit surprising. Especially since I've sort of gotten used to chewing on something a little more substantial over the past several months.

For me, Tonight includes Absolute Beginners. I may have made it seem like I don't like the song, but as a chick I am biologically programmed to want it. It's like a pretty, sparkly sprinkled cupcake with whipped frosting a kilometre high. I'm powerless against its saccharine charms.  And while I know it wasn't recorded until after this album was originally released, I can't imagine listening to Tonight without it. It just makes sense here. Hence its inclusion in this story despite its anachronistic bonus track status.  

One of the coolest things to come out of this album is the 20 minute short film Jazzin' for Blue Jean, which is basically an extended music video for Blue Jean. I highly recommend this neatly presented dish of pan-seared tongue(in-cheek) served on a bed of dry British humour, garnished with a sprinkle of mime-shtick and two heaping dollops of David Bowie making fun of himself.

Despite the punch and candy vibe of Tonight, or maybe because of it,  writing this post was a bit of a different experience, because rather than coming just from my imagination, I got the opportunity to learn a bit about the indigenous Iban tribe of the Dayak people of Malaysian Borneo. I may have blurred the details of the traditional Gawai festivals for this story (Gawai Dayak happens in late spring, so I'm a little late). If you want to know more about the fascinating Dayak, you can start by going here. Who knew that I needed to go to Borneo?

Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.

It's a quiet Friday night after a crazy work week. Today I managed to do the impossible and get not one, but two major projects out the door. I'm exhausted and ready for the weekend, so I crack open a delicious beer and put my feet up. I don't really watch much television... I have a handful of shows that I'm committed to (True Blood, anyone?) but right now I just feel like cruising down cable river and seeing what's on.

I take a quenching sip of cold beer and grab the remote. I press power. Nothing. That's weird. I get up and flip some lights on and off. There doesn't seem to be a power outage. Annoyed, I pick up the remote and stand closer to the television, pressing and pressing and pressing the power button, with no reaction from the television whatsoever.

Alright fine.  Who needs TV anyway? I toss the remote to the chair, but it doesn't quite make it. Instead, it falls to the floor with a loud crash. Suddenly, a luminous, multi-coloured red, green and blue light blasts from the remote and shoots toward me, enveloping me, electrifying me, and then continues past me to the TV screen. The hairs on my body are standing on end, but I don't feel any pain - more like I'm in a cocoon made of static. And there is another peculiar sensation. I look down and see that I am floating above the floor.

Just as I'm wondering what is happening and enjoying the pretty light and funny feelings, the TV switches on and the RGB light pulls me through the room toward the TV. I'm afraid I'm going to crash into it, but instead, I am sucked right in through the TV screen.

Goddamnit. I left my beer on the other side.

Alrighty, where exactly in TV land am I? I seem to be in someone else's house. A typical sitcom-style living room. I can hear voices in the next room - the kitchen, I suppose. The voices start to get louder and I realize the characters of this show, whatever it is, may not be expecting to see me. I dash behind the couch - in sitcoms, no one can ever see you behind the couch. It works - the two young, TV-attractive men emerge from the kitchen. One of them is wearing a baby. All three humans are of different ethnicities. The two smooch each other sweetly and concisely on the lips. The live studio audience applauds and whistles. I get it. It's a show about modern love.

Suddenly, a wild neon-clad neighbour, big in the hair and even bigger in attitude, comes bursting through the door performing some kind of flygirl routine. Her spindly limbs flail about with fierce expression, threatening to knock the duck lips right off her heavily made-up face. The force of it almost knocks the modern couple over.

 Then she stops in her tracks and looks right at me. She lunges at me and pulls me out from behind the couch. The modern lovers gasp in surprise as the flygirl throws her arms around me, crying with a nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard wail, "Oh honey, you're back! You guys, you never told me your sister was coming back from Australia! How was it? You must be so jetlagged, oh you better just run right upstairs and get yourself some sleep, then come over and tell me all about it!"

"G'day, mate!" I stereotypically reply, thankful for the opportunity to escape from this canned hell. The audience laughs as I bolt up the stairs, the show's two main characters watching me with overly wide eyes and overly dropped jaws on their overly stunned faces. Lucky for me, I don't get to find out how they get out of this one.

Upstairs in the sitcom house is a dark and strange place. The paint is peeling on the walls, and the light bulbs are flickering creepily. Bits of garbage litter the floor like an obstacle course for cockroaches and silverfish. Is this what is hiding above every sitcom living room?

 I can only faintly hear the sounds of the live studio audience downstairs. I decide to crawl out the bathroom window, which conveniently has a fire escape. As I hurry down the stairs, I'm aware of being in what looks like not a very good area of town, the inner city, as it were. The air is damp and smelly, and there are sirens not far off. As I walk around to the front of the building, I see a young woman crouching behind the dumpster. She's badly beaten and bruised, her clothing torn, her face red from crying. I call for help.

I wait with the girl until the ambulance arrives. I'm a witness now, and a couple of investigators come to talk to me about the girl. They look really familiar, these investigators. Is that... Mariska Hargitay? Am I in Law and Order SVU?! I stifle the urge to shake her hand and ask her for an autograph, for obviously, this is a serious moment in the episode and I don't want to ruin it for those who may be watching.

I tell them everything I know, and they ask if I wouldn't mind coming to the station with them, to fill out some forms and give a statement. Feeling a bit uneasy about the whole thing, I go, feeling like I don't have much of a choice. Where would I go anyway? This universe is unfamiliar to me and I could end up in a situation not unlike that poor girl.

At the station, I'm surrounded by all kinds of people from all walks of life. Most of the people scattered around the station have a passionless, drifting way about them, like they just can't seem to get ahead. Everything about them is dingy and hopeless, caught up in a world that never gives back, forcing them to take what isn't theirs. They bounce off the walls and push through the combine, in and out, around and round through the revolving doors. Ricochet! It's not the end of the world.

I've waiting in this room for what seems like an eternity. I wake up to some commotion as a dirty, disheveled looking man who smells strongly of gasoline is brought in wearing handcuffs, his hands behind his back. He wears a disturbing grin, baring rotten, blackened teeth which look as though he's been chewing on charcoal. The edges of his coat are singed black, and black smoke practically wafts off his hair.

I've been putting out fire with gasoline he looks at me and says. Just then, a documentary crew comes flying into the station, demanding to know if this is the famous Catman, the elusive arsonist who has been setting fires all over town.

Finally, Mariska Hargitay appears and tells me I'm free to go. I ask her if the girl will be alright and she says she thinks so, thanks to me. Feeling happy to hear that, I leave the station light on my feet among the lost souls filing in and out through the revolving door.

Out in the street, the moon has broken through the clouds, illuminating the streets and casting glimmering sparkles on the river up ahead in the distance.  I start walking toward the waterfront of this television city. As I stroll, I find myself getting caught up in a crowd of people watching something on the street. I'm short and can't see over the crowd, but I can hear the sound of voices rhyming and singing in unison. I slither my way through the crowd to the front to find what looks like two rival gangs getting into a musical battle with each other - a battle of singing, dancing, and cheeky glances. Oh god, is this some kind of budget, television take on West Side Story?

Now the people in the crowd are getting in on it, dancing in choreographed unison to the song. How do they all know the moves? I look like a right moron, being the only one not dancing, so I start copying the moves of the people in the crowd around me. And then cartoon birds appear, singing and dancing along with us, in their magical Disney-esque way. TV world, you are weird.

The dancing crowd breaks up and the dancing birds flit away, but I hang around for a moment. The victor of the dance-off seems to have won the girl the rivals have been fighting over. She's a beautiful young Chinese girl, and she seems quite thrilled with the result of the battle. I watch as the girl and her man go walking off toward the serious moonlight, holding each other tightly.

(Things that are uncomfortable to listen to: this song. 

Things that are not okay in 2014 and I don't remember being okay in 1983 either: most of this video.)

As I make my way to the waterfront, I become aware that I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to get home. What if Chad changes the channel and never finds me? What if he turns the TV off?  How can I let him know that I'm in here? I'm basically homeless here.  I might have to shack up with one of those singing, dancing gang guys. Ugh.

Staring at the big white moon, I'm suddenly aware that I can see a face in it. Will you look at that, in the TV world there is a man in the moon after all. Of course there is. I smile and think about Chad. I wish he was here with me.

I sigh and think about where I might take shelter for the night. Suddenly I hear someone calling my name, ever so faintly in the distance, or through some kind of barrier. It kind of sounds like Chad. Wait, it is Chad! In the moon... that's his face! Then I start to hear other voices... disgusting gurgling voices, choking out what sounds like "brrraaaiiiinnnnssss". Are you kidding me? Zombies? Am in The Walking Dead now? I fucking hate that show! Fucking zombies! But boy do they move fast for a bunch of deadbeats. Shit.

More and more, I can see the image of Chad fading in from the sky. He's waving at me. He can see me! I wave frantically at the man in the moon, yelling at him to get me out of here. He's pressing all kinds of buttons on the remote control, but nothing is happening. The zombies are getting closer and closer. I mouth the word ZOMBIES at Chad, hoping he can read my lips. Nope. I scream it as loud as I can. He shrugs helplessly. Then he sees them. There's nowhere for me to run. Now he's pressing buttons on the remote like crazy. I have never been this terrified in my life. I'm going to be turned into a zombie. This fucking sucks.

Desprate, Chad throws the remote at the TV, tearing a hole in the fabric of the sky. The warm light from my living room beams through the tear. Just as the horde of zombies approaches, Chad's arm reaches through the jagged hole and he grabs my hand, pulling me off the ground, through the air, over the river, and through the hole in the sky, safe and sound back into my home.

Sigh. I hug him harder and tighter than I ever have before in my life.

And then a nasty fucking zombie arm comes grabbing through the hole in the TV. Without even a thought Chad and I grab the TV and chuck it out the window. It crashes to the ground 20 floors below, the rotten arm of the undead twitching in the wreckage.

Fuck television.

*****

Okay, this album didn't exactly set my imagination on fire. The first few listens were fun and nostalgic, taking me back to Grades 2 and 3. The songs Modern Love and Let's Dance seem to be printed onto my DNA, and I love them in that special kind of way. I even have a couple random fleeting memories of them playing, one where I was riding in the car to my uncle's girlfriend's house (she was like a part of the family - my sister and I even called her auntie) and Let's Dance was on the radio, and for some reason I associate Modern Love with the playground at my school in Grade 3.

I think that's why this album took me to TV land. I was a kid raised on television. I'm relieved that I've pretty much grown out of that now, but up until about 12 years ago, I watched a lot of TV.

The theme of getting zapped into the TV I have obviously pinched from TVC15 off Station to Station. I played with the idea of using that theme for the Station to Station blog post (get it? TV station to TV station? Ha, miso clever) but ultimately it wasn't true to the real feelings and images I got from that album, so it got shelved until now, when it just made much more sense.

I'm not going to say I didn't like this album. Obviously it earned its place in my heart long ago before I even had a say in the matter, but I will say the chances of it making it into my everyday rotation are not high.