In the back of my mind, I’m still sitting around a board room table, staring at a list of names and ideas and values and visions and thoughts and thinking — “how are we ever going to make this work?”

Three months later, it worked — but more than that. It soared.

For those who missed the deluge of Tweets today, TEDx Manitoba 2012 just happened. Last year, I was in the theatre as a member of the audience. This year, I came with a slightly different perspective: after blogging about some of my critiques of last year’s speaker line-up, I was asked to serve on the Speaker’s Committee for the 2012 event.

It was a whirlwind of an experience — a whirlwind largely borne by committee lead Kerry Stevenson, who would have been billing triple-overtime if he had been paid, by the by — and I can’t quite believe it came together as wonderfully as it did.

Quick thoughts, before I head out to the after party:

+ This year, we decided to focus on homegrown Manitoba speakers, and I think the effect was superb — we heard so many ideas worth sharing that came from our own backyards (literally, in the case of Getty Stewart). At the same time, our visiting speakers (TJ Dawe, NASA CIO Linda Cureton, and science-fiction great Robert Sawyer) were incredible, and incredibly game to come participate in our event.

+ I want to thank Kale Bonham and Michael Champagne for bringing their ideas, perspectives and experiences as young aboriginal people to the TEDx Manitoba stage, including honouring us with a smudging.

+ Overall, I think we had a wonderful balance of talks that were funny, thoughtful, inspiring and practical. What was most incredible to me was what great flow there was, and how ready all of our speakers were. Loved the mix, and the feedback we got was generally very positive about our selection of speakers.

+ It was thrilling to see all the networking going on during breaks and after TEDx ended. I know Michael received a number of requests to speak to school groups. I saw TJ Dawe and Gem Newman chatting about collaborating on some writing about how science is portrayed in the media. Sounded like lots of people were interested in signing up with Getty Stewart’s FruitShare program. These connections are really what makes TEDx special — it’s the talks, yes, but it’s also the opportunity to develop real collaborations from those talks. Those are the real-life impacts of this type of event.

+ Most of all — I hope everyone starts thinking about what TEDx Manitoba idea they might like to pitch for 2013! I’m hoping to return on the Speaker Committee, and I still have a few ideas about things I’d like to see next year in terms of types of talks and diversity of speakers. So start mulling over your ideas worth sharing — and submit next year!

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Permit me a long post about something I’ve been musing on in my field of work: namely, how to build effective and mutually constructive relationships between reporters and members of the general public who may enter the news at some point in their lives.

Before I begin, a disclaimer: this is a musing on my own internal learning process. I’m not reinventing the wheel here; I’m not going to say anything that a thousand million reporters aren’t already doing and thinking and saying. But nonetheless, it’s my journey and, lately, my inspiration. And perhaps some will find that worth reading.

Below the cut.

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While browsing which Google search keywords landed on my blog, I noticed something odd.

So I Tweeted about it.

And then…

I don’t know who you are, but you are awesome.

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Last week, I asked Twitter a very important question: What is a leek, and what can I do with it?

As it turns out, a leek is a type of mild onion that is good in soup, and also I am the only person who didn’t know what a leek is.

Here’s why I was asking: last week, I got my very first delivery of organic produce from Fresh Option. And lo, there were leeks in that box.

My interest in signing up for organic produce delivery is twofold. For most of my life, I have survived almost exclusively on food that’s deep-fried and made by 16-year-olds in hair nets. The damage of that diet is obvious; I don’t want to have quadruple bypass surgery anytime soon, so it was time to make a change.

The second reason is that I feel very strongly that food sustainability and food policy is going to be one of the most pressing global issues of my generation. Like most of us, I’ve struggled to match my behaviour to my ethics; this year, I decided I have to start making food choices I can live with.

For me, signing up for Fresh Option presents a unique challenge: I can’t cook, at all. When I was 20, I had to call a chef roommate at work to ask her how to make an omelette. If it doesn’t come pre-cooked in a box, or cannot be simply placed between two slices of bread, I cannot make food for myself.

But in my weekly Rubbermaid container are a wealth of veggies that I have to learn to cook with. And tonight, I made my very first serious attempt, and on the advice of some of my Twitter friends, I thought I would share.

I share this adventure not to show off my cooking skills (which will be evident), but to act as encouragement: I’m sure some of you are in the same predicament. And if I can learn to feed myself, you can too.

So without further ado, I present Melissa’s Adventures In Cookery, Part I: Leek and Cabbage Latkes. Lots of juicy photos below the cut.

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This is part II of my series of trying to convince Winnipeggers that we need to look to Portland, Oregon as a model for our future. Part I is here.

I am no synaesthete, but when I think of Portland, the word is green.

Oregon looks like what I imagine the Cretaceous looked like: huge and deep and dense with life, but somehow just a touch unfinished. Like some cosmic painter decided to go big or go home, but then — when the job was nearly done — packed up his paintbrush and hit the pub instead.

At least he left behind his palette.

From near the middle of the steep slopes of Washington Park, the world is green. The hills roll with emerald and deep pine and now, in the dying days of November, bright flashes of orange and gold.

To the east, in the heart of Oregon, lies a desert. But here in the Willamette Valley — and south, along the coast, through the mountains and the vineyards that nestle in their laps — the land blossoms and the city shines, watched o’er by the crowning volcanic glory of a single snow-capped peak.

There is a colour filter on this photo of Washington Park. But not as much as you might think.

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On a crisp November day, paradise descends, somewhat unexpectedly, onto a Portland park bench.

It’s near to 3 p.m, and the Willamette Valley skies are dried into a blank eggshell slate. Underneath the metal lip of a cluttered red-and-yellow food truck, a Thai woman hauls a portable heater from her kitchen shelves.

“For your hands!” she says, smile breaking wider than the Columbia River.  “It’s so cold.”

This little Canadian doesn’t break it to her that the 10 C weather feels balmy.

But this is what really warms my heart: there are but a handful of surface parking lots in Portland, and most that exist are ringed ’round by carts like hers, portable (but mostly permanent) cubes of metal and wood cooking up a cornucopia of global fare.

Food cart paradise at 5th Avenue and Stark Street.

In this block alone: three Thai carts, a Czech comfort food vendor, not one but two Korean-Mexican fusion joints (?), some Chinese, a Hawaiian BBQ, a Lebanese eatery, the requisite taco bar and a couple of boffo burger hawkers. Some carts have cute little open-air seating areas; others unceremoniously brown-bag it.

Sitting, eating and talking is a far more fun use of surface parking space than parking.

For most purveyors, it’s a lunch business — and business is booming.

There are almost no fast-food restaurants in Portland. Correction: these are the fast-food restaurants in Portland. With over 400 carts dotting the downtown area, street food is one of Portland’s most beloved cottage industries.

Oregon newspapers and magazines devote regular time to reviewing the colourful carts. A whole website helps hungry residents navigate the food-cart scene. Wikipedia’s entry on “food carts” is dedicated to Portland — and you policy-types may find it worth a read for a look at the relaxed inspection and tax regime that allows the cart culture to flourish.

The beauty of this wee economic engine is that it extends beyond the carts themselves. As I understand it, the dominance of food carts over fast-food chains has propped up local produce suppliers; one Portland bicycle courier specializes in food-cart food delivery.

Delivery from a food cart?

Perish the images of limp and greasy fries that dot the Winnipeg food-cart scene — though you can find those here too, if they tickle your fancy. For the most part, like the rest of the food culture in Portland, freshness is the key word here.

Freshness, and affordability.

Eight bucks bought me my paradise on that crisp Portland afternoon. That was enough for two giant salad rolls stuffed with crisp veggies and slathered with peanut sauce (which I promptly spilled all over the bench), a cute box of sticky rice, a bottle of water and a steaming bucket of the most tantalizing tom kha soup I have ever tasted.

There were more vegetables in this pail of soup than in the entire menu at McDonald's.

This is heaven.*

My next question: how do we bring this heaven to Winnipeg?

It’s no secret to my friends and Twitter followers that Portland is my favourite place on this continent. Often overlooked, the town is a literal shining city on the hill: beautiful, fresh, exploding with good ways to live.

But my love is more than that.

I love Portland, because I love Winnipeg. And in Portland, I see shades of my prairie birthplace, I see visions of what Winnipeg could become.

Because we can’t really compare ourselves to Toronto, or Vancouver. We are a far cry from New York, or Montreal. But if we had the vision, and if we had the will, we could be like Portland.

And in the next few blog entries, I will endeavor to convince you why we should, and why — as I maintain — Portland is the best blueprint for what a modern, mid-sized North American city could be.

To be continued.

*And if your heaven requires a post-meal cigar, Portland has you covered there too: even tobacco gets sold in trucks in Portland:

This is the most un-Canadian thing you'll see in all my Portland posts.

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So sometime around the start of fall, I switched from MTS to Shaw.

Saved a lot of money. Lost a lot of channels. Among them: CNN and almost anything associated with educational content.

Besides, I’ve been distracted. And my distractions have taken me on a looping course away from the news cycle of the moment.

On Twitter, I won a subscription to The New Yorker, the apple of my reading eye. I don’t think I’ve yet read a single issue straight through. I used to hit up U.S. political blogs several times a day. Now I haven’t seen the front end of Talking Points Memo for weeks.

I’ve decided to call it the Great News Break of 2011.

Why? Just burned out, I suppose. Or just ready to define myself some other way.

The odd thing: the less international news I consume, the happier I’ve become. Use me as your test subject, but I tell you true: I am a far more cheerful person now that I am, just slightly, in the dark.

There is nothing, right now, that gives me more pleasure than “Nope!” being the answer to the question: “Did you hear about what Herman Cain said?” I have begun to suspect I may, in fact, be a better person for not knowing this. In years past, knowing that the Herman Cains of the world were saying would keep me up at night.

Now, I sleep like a baby, ensconced in a bed of fluffy and frivolous things.

I’m sure I’ll be back to it shortly. But like I said, I’ve been distracted. By hockey and birthdays and new friends and old haunts. By big ideas and new opportunities. By my trip back to my favourite place in the world, for which I leave on Tuesday night.

In the meantime, my blog collects dust. That’s okay. Everything needs a rehabilitation phase.

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And just like that, the world dies.

Ashes of a burned-out summer dance outside the window. A funeral shroud over foreign grasses that clung, ’til now, to green. And by February, we’ll say: “was it all a dream? So it was all just a dream.”

We trade in Technicolour summers for rabbit-ear winters. White and black and grainy film, time elapsed in fits and jerks. Wake up, bundle up, hot shower, go to work. So goes the dirge of all northern cities. Press pause. Hit play. Stay inside. Shiver the day away.

It’s hard to imagine living in a place where the leaves don’t die and the sun stays alive and the air doesn’t hurt and the grass doesn’t hide. Places where you never shield your eyes from the glitter and the glare, or trudge through streets quiet with smothered sounds.

But then: exhaust and sand will turn our white world brown.

And piss in the snow.

And blood in the snow.

With furtive glances out the window, I brace myself against the coming storms. Another Winnipeg winter, another death before the world’s reborn. Another year to ask: can I make it through? Or will I lose my mind?

I’m not a winter person. But the world, like me, just needs to take some time.

(I’m sorry. I totally forgot I had a blog.)

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Let’s say I was a man.

Being a man, if I walked out of my house tonight wearing boxers, most people would think it was funny. Sure, some people would be confused. Others would laugh, maybe give me some high-fives.

In comedy movies, men in underpants is a punchline.

But I’m not a man, and the sight of female flesh is almost never a punchline — at least, not so long as it fits our culture’s definition of what is sexually desirable. So if I were to walk outside my house in underpants and a bra, people wouldn’t think it was funny.

They might, however, think it was “trashy,” “skanky,” “slutty” or just plain demeaning. Pick a word, there are certainly enough of them. And they all mean the same thing.

The primary weapon our culture uses against women is sexual devaluation. And once women are seen as sexually devalued, we are seen as fair game for whatever may befall us.

“If you dress like a slut, you’ll get treated like a slut.”

Or however you want to put it.

Culture reminds us, every day, that in order to retain sexual valuation and thus be defended from sexual violence, we have to keep our flesh in check — shown just enough to make us visually appealing, but hidden enough that we aren’t “giving it away” or “degrading ourselves.” (Even if violence does not happen, we are held responsible for the gaze of others.)

Here’s my central issue (among many) with this icky little double-standard: it is based on the assumption that women’s bodies are inherently sexual objects, that naked female flesh defaults to sexual whereas naked male flesh does not, and that it is thus inevitable and necessary that women take precautions to hide this sexual bait from men who would do them violence.

False. Wrong. Totally and completely wrong.

Confront someone with this double-standard, and they’ll often assert that it is biological inevitability, an immutable fact of the species that human women are to be looked at, and human men are the ones to do the looking.

But that is demonstrably false.

In fact, how sexually we perceive the female body is entirely cultural. We don’t have to look far to identify numerous indigenous cultures where the sight of any naked female flesh is wholly unremarkable, and certainly not titillating; on the other end, there are cultures which view a naked female ankle as be sexually inciting. In the middle, there are many cultures in which varying levels and occasions of non-sexualized nudity are tolerated.

Treating women’s bodies as sexual objects is not part of our biology. It is part of our culture. And the culture, if you permit the profanity, is fucked-up.

Especially when it comes to victim-blaming.

Let me make this clear: in the context of sexual assault, victim blaming is a manifestation of sexualized hate against women.

Just world theory is bad enough without the misogyny. But what is most dramatic about victim blaming in rape cases is that it is reserved, almost exclusively, for victims that fit our society’s definition of sexually desirable, or at least sexually available.

For instance, while victim blaming can and does happen in almost any case of sexual assault, it is far more prevalent when the victim falls loosely into a category of women who are deemed sexually available to men.

If an 80-year-old woman is raped, people are generally disgusted. If a woman with cognitive or severe physical disabilities is raped, people are most likely to be horrified. If a young child is raped, people are shocked and furious.

But if the survivor of sexual violence is post-pubescent but pre-menopausal, if she is apparently able-bodied and neurotypical, the amount of sympathy observers have for her begins to drop precipitously.

There’s the sexual devaluation weapon again: if she is a chaste mother of three who is raped by a stranger in her own home, she may avoid the worst of it. But if she is a young woman who was raped when she was socializing, she will be met with every possible reason in the book about why she should have known better.

And if she is a woman of any kind who is raped by a friend, partner or spouse — far and away the most common profile of a rapist — then it is assumed that she is not smart enough to know the difference between regret and rape.

Because a sexually available woman, our culture says, is a sexually devalued woman. And sexually devalued women are not considered worthy of our society’s empathy or protection. They are not even considered worthy of feeling the same pain, fear and trauma as women who are “really raped.”

Read these comments again.

Read them, and remember this: victim-blaming, all victim-blaming, is an act of making excuses for rapists and criminals. If you have ever said anything remotely similar to the comments linked above, then you have made our culture a friendlier place to be for rapists.

And most rapists rape more than once.

They rape more than once, because they know they will probably get away with it. Because they know that so long as they rape an acceptable target, cops, culture and courts will scrutinize the victim first — beginning with the headline.

You want to talk about being soft on crime?

Exhibit A: these people who, whether they admit it or not, treat rape against certain broad categories of women as an understandable crime, one committed by a red-blooded man against a woman who failed to properly cover and protect herself from an inevitably sexual gaze.

This is what Slutwalk is about, by the way.

We can debate if Slutwalk is the most effective way to share this message. We can discuss the impact of the word, the logistics of reclaiming it, and the ways in which Slutwalk struggled as a movement of inclusion.

But if you are debating that Slutwalk is bad because women should learn to cover themselves up and “take responsibility” for themselves, then you are not expressing an “honest” or “realistic” or “responsible” opinion.

All you’re doing is defending a violent status quo, and protecting the rapists who make it so.

Thanks, and keep up the good work.*

* Terrible, awful, harmful, hateful work.

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