Posts Tagged ‘canada’

Valentine Vixen — Pamela Anderson, Miss February 1990

February 26, 2010

Very, very special Valentine Vixen. The lovely and talented, and in my book unendingly wonderful with so much more to her than the surface by which she is constantly judged, Pamela Anderson was Miss February 1990. Pammy was only 23 years old, she had just moved to Los Angeles after living most of her life in tiny Comox, B.C, Canada, and her interview will just about break your heart.

Photographed by Arny Freytag.

She was discovered by accident while being her gorgeous and naturally attention-grabbing self at a simple sporting event.

Pamela took in a B.C. Lions football game in Vancouver and made a national spectacle of herself. Duded up in blue, the signature color of Labatt’s Beer, she caught the eye of a national-TV cameraman. Football fans all over Canada called the network to inquire about the sideline stunner at the Lions game. Next thing she knew, Pamela was a Labatt’s poster girl. (“B.C. Beauty.” Playboy, February 1990.)

To keep her wits about her, she kept a journal in which she recorded her experiences. “This is the beginning of a new life for me,” she wrote. She worked as a model and studied airline routes in her spare time. She got her certification as a travel agent, just in case her plans for an even bigger move didn’t work out. (Ibid.)

She kept up the journaling and also expanded to other writing, too. She used to be a regular contributor to Jane magazine back when I subscribed because I was, like, sooooo counterculture and didn’t need any typical beauty magazines (Jane is now owned by Glamour so in my face) to tell my oh-so-over-it ass how to catch boys and flutter my eyelashes, thank you very much, and Pam’s editorials cracked me up. She can be wickedly sarcastic, and turned most of her wit on herself, totally willing to mock the image but then turn around and reveal this sweet and sensitive side, too. Very cool.

She now studies scripts the way she once pored over airline schedules, and more than one casting director has told her she is sure to go far. This, though, is her first big break. (Ibid.)

“Hollywood people are dreamers. Always grabbing for something big. I’m a dreamer, too, so I guess I belong here.” (Ibid.)

Damn. “I’m a dreamer, too, so I guess I belong here.” Think about all the total shit she has been through, the complete Hollywood wringer that has spun her around and wrung her out again and again since she said that in 1990.

Dating abusive and disease-ridden scummy cads, overindulging in the sea of substances that surrounded her rock and roll lifestyle, getting out and keeping her kids clean, being lambasted left and right for her body, judged solely on her looks; having her every move under scrutiny and criticized constantly as if she is some empty-headed set of shellacked boobs and nothing more, when really she is this sensitive and hilarious writer with a huge soft spot for animals and abused children, it’s like — the crux of injustice. Man. Excuse me, I … I have some dust in my eye.

Pamela Anderson has been for many years a highly visible spokesperson for PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Yes, I know PETA is not perfect. No, I don’t need to hear about it, because, like I just said, I know. Many nonprofits run in to choppy waters when they are closely investigated and PETA, because its beneficiaries cannot speak for themselves, comes under close scrutiny and is found lacking very often in public forums. Got it. But can we at least agree that it is really cool that Pam Anderson took on the mantle of ambassador to animals years ago and has stuck with it through thick and thin, both in her career and her cup size? I think that is admirable and demonstrative of her sensitivity and persistence.

Bardot and Pammy. Many similarities. Strong, opinionated blonde sex symbols under whose famously nice racks beat determined hearts of gold.

Since two legendary blonde bombshells and all ’round inconic sex goddesses are better than one, Brigitte Bardot and Pamela Anderson have now united to call for an immediate end to the Canadian seal hunt. (“Pamela Anderson and Brigitte Bardot Unite: ‘Love Seals, Don’t Club Them!'” 13 Feb 2008. PETA2 Daily Blog.)

This afternoon while visiting the Brigitte Bardot Foundation in Paris, Pamela filled in for Mme Bardot (who is ill and can’t travel at the moment) and held a press conference publicly condeming the seal hunt and everyone who wears or designs fur. (Ibid.)

The seal hunt, which runs from November through May, really is fucking gross and awful. If you live in one of the five remaining geographical areas that still have it, I don’t want to tell you how to live your life, but holy hell, write a letter or something, would you? That shit is purely against God’s will, I’m almost positive. It’s got me all kinds of cussing in disgust over here.

The final quote from the interview with Playboy is really heartbreaking.

“I hope that when people see me in Playboy,” she says, “they’ll see more than the surface. I hope they’ll see a Comox girl reaching for a dream.” (“B.C. Beauty.”)

That is just exactly the way of it, you guys. So maybe the next time you are in a group of people and someone makes an allusion to Pamela analogizing her to trash or implying she is some blonde bimbo, perhaps you will remember that she is a sweet, poetic soul from a small town who has never meant anyone harm a day in her life, and you can step up like a gentleman hero and tell that hater to shut their ignorant piehole.

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: “Get Well Soon” edition

November 29, 2009

Ottawa, Canada

NSFW November: Danielle de Vabre, Miss November 1971

November 19, 2009

Playboy’s Miss Novembrrrrr 1971, Danielle de Vabre, came from the frozen North of Canadialand, where she was a lovely and talented bunny at the Montreal club.

Photographed by Dwight Hooker

She grew up skiing in Canada, but, after graduating from high school, she and her parents agreed she could take a year off and go to Colorado to be a ski instructor there.

Danielle’s parents agreed that, before beginning her English-literature studies at a Montreal college, she should have her dream adventure in the Western U.S. “My parents knew that if I started school right away, I would resent being there and, consequently, my concentration would suffer.” There was one condition in their agreement, however: Danielle was to finance the trip herself (“Snow Job,” Playboy, November 1971).

Yes, it is so often the case that concentration in college suffers because all you can think about is skiing. Thank goodness her parents were aware of this educational pitfall.

Naturally, the next logical step was to become a Playboy bunny. Pfft — duh! Everyone knows that’s how you get money to go to Colorado and become a ski instructor. Story as old as time.

For the next few months, Danielle worked as a Bunny while waiting to hear from the Colorado resorts to which she’d applied. Finally, she received a positive reply from the Steamboat Springs ski school’s Skeeter Werner, sister of the late Olympic skier Bud Werner.

Oh, hey, aging rich plane passenger. Coffee, tea, or Danielle?

To become an airline stewardess. I’d also like to study interior design and fine arts.
Age does not matter, as long as he has character.

I just kind of feel like those two statements are related.

Though I of course assume that all her dreams came true and she is doubtless skiing down some snowy slope in her airline stewardess uniform while sketching an interior design and dictating a novel into a tape recorder, I absolutely came up triple goose eggs on searches for what Ms. de Vabre is really up to these days. If you know, drop me a line!

Music Moment: More from Mother Mother

November 9, 2009

I realized that the last time I was jawing at you about young, offbeat hipster Canadian cuties Mother Mother, I streamed basically the entirety of their new album (but I wisely did not throw up the mp3s and make them available to download; look who’s NOT getting her narrow ass sued today! me! I am the one!), but, other than “Dirty Town,” I almost totally ignored their first-ish album. It was a retool in cooperation with the label of an earlier, limited self-release. The album is called Touch Up, and while I don’t think it has the same naked genius and confidence of O My Heart, it is still infinity plus one times better than most of the slop the pretty people shove down our throats on the reg.

Jasmin Parkin, proving me right that the recent absconsion of strawberry blonde Debra-Jean Creelman could be easily combated by one of the tow heads dyeing her hair a little red.

One of my favorite songs in the world is “Mr. Sandman,” of which I have many covers. This frenetically paced track makes wide reference to it. It’s a crazy song and I do not at all recommend it if you are hung over, but it’s awesome if you’re on the natch and looking for a little ear candy.

Mother Mother – Tic Toc

I included it first here because I think it’s the best track of the lot for the distinctive harmonics and characteristically shifty orchestration, which is still emerging on this album and reached full fruit on the more recent LP O My Heart. I love that every time you think you have a bead on the different instruments, something gets cut and something crazy and new gets thrown in, although consistent throughout is that great plucky cotton-picking acoustic sound that makes all music good for me; some things just speak to your soul and that is apparently my soul’s style.

Congruently, it’s almost becoming signature to me in Ryan Guldemond’s compositions to hear that fluid time signature; always jerking the rug out from beneath us, these kids. Also, as usual, some surprisingly good lyrics, I really feel like the songs “Wrecking Ball” and “Burning Pile” on their sophomore release picks this theme back up, enough so that I’m starting to want to sit down and have a couple pints with Ryan G and nail down some solid plans for anarchy (oxymoron intended).

All this talk, all this ticking, all this shit talk
I’m staying in bed today
And it doesn’t matter what they’ll have to say to me
No I do not care just what they’ll have to say to me
Cuz I am not listening

Big hand, little hand, no hand, slow hand
Sitting in my hand is the sand of a shattered hour glass
And I throw these grains of sand into the wind and laugh
And I do not care just what they’ll have to say about that
Cuz the sand man told me, there’s no use in listening

I am not listening to you

Molly Guldemond and Debra-Jean Creelman.

Another standout track is “Love and Truth.” The ladies take the lead on this song, and it’s a shiny little pretty gem on a decent but occasionally rough and uneven album.

Mother Mother – Love and Truth

Is my life not all that I thought it would be?
Is it simply ordinary?
Oh, is it far from all my fantasies?

Love and truth
Why are they so hard to achieve
Love and truth
They’re such hot commodities
But come in such small quantities
Love and truth where are you?

Oh, love and truth
If everything was up to me
I’d make sure that there was plenty of love and truth
Love and truth where are you?

Molly Guldemond at the Central Jazz Fest in Gastown, photographed by Krystal Shea.

Hilarious and honest and surprising with vocals that rip through like from underwater to squawk the cocky lyrics at you, with the girls’ harmonic back-ups in styles that vary from the Ronettes to the ladies’ choir vox on Duran-Duran’s “Come Undone,” really funny and unflinching at the same time. I wonder what conversation lead him to write those lyrics. I want to meet that chick.

Mother Mother – Verbatim

I wear women’s underwear
And then I go to strike a pose in my full length mirror
I cross my legs just like a queer
But my libido is strong when a lady is near, ya
What defines a straight man’s straight?
Is it the boxer in the briefs or a twelve ounce steak?
I tell you what a women loves most
It’s a man who can slap but can also stroke

Goin’ in the wind is an eddy of the truth and it’s naked
It’s verbatim and it’s shakin’
backupNo, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no more getting’ elated
No more listless invitations

And every day I go out walking past its sickly windows
I see people dying there
But my tender age makes it hard to care
Incinerator and a big smoke stack
It’s a phallic symbol and it makes me laugh
All I need is a heart attack
C’mon, humble my bones with a Cardiac

For the love of fuck
For the sake of Pete
Did you ever really think you’d love a guy like me?
I am the rooster in the morning
I’m the cock of the day
I’m the boxer in the briefs
I’m a twelve ounce steak

Ya, it’s verbatim
And ya, and it’s naked
And ya, and it’s shakin’
It shakes, shakes shakes

That’s it for me, I need to do a little laundry so I have something to wear when Panda and I go out for some soosh bombasticos tonight, as planned. It’s going to be a slaughter! That sushi restaurant will rue the day I heard of it.