Sophie’s Place, Shannon Tweed and Pornography.

Shannon Tweed has and continues to be involved in the pornography industry as an actress which is why it is shocking and despicable that no one is concerned that her daughter Sophie Tweed Simmons has opened a center for child victims of sexual abuse in British Columbia. Apparently child protection advocates as well as those involved in rape and abuse prevention are ignoring this silent sanctioning or diminishing of an industry that is responsible for an increase in sexual violence against women and children.  Not one person has asked Ms. Tweed Simmons to clarify her position regarding pornography or her feelings about her mother’s role in promoting it. This is more than a contradiction, it is completely unacceptable from a child protection perspective. The fact that the creation of this centre had more to do with an episode of her family’s reality television program only highlights the questionable nature of her involvement.  When you also consider that policing and child protection agencies are utilizing this centre, it is beyond disturbing.  There is no separating Sophie Tweed Simmons connection to this children’s centre from her mother’s involvement with pornography because her entire reputation is based on her parentage, hence her name being used to promote this program in the first place. As a survivor of sexual abuse and rape, I am disgusted and ashamed that those who are suppose to be protecting children have sanctioned this obscenity, it is an insult to all survivors and victims.

This article from the January 15, 2012 issue of the Vancouver Sun makes everything quite clear:





Tomorrow I Will Be Back To…

drop a new poem here.  Until then, wouldn’t it be great to swap places with another, just for a while?  If for no other reason, than to share the knowledge back and forth and gain a greater appreciation of the opposition.    😉

An Old Poem I Wrote, That I’ve Decided To Post Again

Because Dhyan Traiber wrote a poem that reminded me of this piece I did some time ago.  To prove I’m not one of those dreadful recyclers, I’ve written a new poem below this one so you’re getting something old and something new.  🙂


The Fist And The Ovum

The fist and the ovum went for a walk

The ovum said “really, I just want to talk”

But the fist had ideas of power and might

Determined to incite the ovum to fight

The transparent fist made Ovum sigh

For she was the maker of life, not the lie

But it didn’t deter the focus of  fist

Who called it a war when Ovum tried to resist

The walk ended badly and both limped away

The fist with his conscience and the ovum betrayed

For as long as gender has been on this earth

The takers of life hate those who give birth

The Feminist Anti Feminist

B movie actresses with an addiction to objectifying themselves in magazine photo shoots, are by their very nature, the enemy of the spirit and goal of feminism, which is of course, to advance the cause of equality for everyone, both male and female.   The list of those walking the anti feminism treadmill is endless and as the age of forty looms over their Botox horizon it appears they are even more desperate to validate their worth.  This usually involves removal of clothes with strategically placed hands or male accessories such as neckties.  The effect is briefly successful, as the lowest common denominator to which this appeals has a microscopic attention span.  Money is made,  power  changes hands and once again the notion of women as sexual objects with a shelf life of forty years is cemented into the psyche of another generation boys.   Eventually for these women,  there is the predictable descent into professional obscurity hastened by the horrendous mutilation of faces and breasts.  Where is this leading lovely people?  To Jennifer Aniston of course!

Jennifer Aniston is not I repeat NOT a feminist.  Despite her verbal tiger swipe at misogynist Bill O’Reilly, her most recent gaffe on Regis and Kelly proves without a doubt that this woman is indeed backward.  I knew she was delayed in her development when she began her secondary career as a professional whiner, post Friends, whoring out her self pity at the dissolution of her marriage.  Not only did this endless passive/aggressive pity party trip through the talk show circuit, displaying the deficit in her self esteem and personality, but it also served to create a division between two women having a public cat fight over a man.  Jennifer Aniston walked right into the oldest scenario going:  Two women (Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie) degrading and dividing themselves over a man (Brad Pitt) whose ego expands in direct proportion to their female insecurity.  Of course,  over time, this saga has grown tedious and annoying for the public and the hands on the clock move for us all and in particular for Jennifer Aniston whose acting chops are questionable at best. The premise of every movie she stars in is the same:   Jennifer the girlfriend, Jennifer the arm piece, Jennifer the woman on the hunt for the perfect man.  These flicks have been going nowhere fast, along with her dewy skin,  therefore she and her publicist determined it was time to bring on the aging starlet role, the career changing part to keep her in front of a camera, the pro independent feminist role: The Switch.  The premise is simple:  A single woman wants a child, can’t find a suitable man with whom to have a child, artificially inseminates and thus she is…wait for it…A FEMINIST.  In no time at all, Jennifer Aniston has gone from being a ‘hair icon’  small screen actress, to Brad Pitt’s questionable eye candy, to his wife, to his jilted wife, to his belly aching B list actress ex wife, to an artificial insemination champion of feminists principles everywhere and last but not least, a woman who has a penchant for being backward.  In her own words: “Yes, I play dress up!  I do it for a living, like a retard.”  Well Jennifer, you may indeed play dress up for a living, but you are NOT a feminist who speaks for anyone with a vagina whether we are talking procreation or not. Clearly, you don’t speak for anyone who is mentally challenged either, but you and Barack could get together and discuss the special olympics and why you both won’t be invited anytime soon.  You are indeed a social and spiritual retard because sweetie,  you don’t have the jam to be in the same league in any way with anyone who is mentally challenged.  For that you would have to have some guts and self respect.

Two Definitions for the dictionary lovers in the crowd, the first is for the word retard, the second is for the word actor.   For purposes of consistency, we’ll just use the Oxford today lovely people.  🙂




[with object]

  • delay or hold back in terms of progress or development:his progress was retarded by his limp




  • a person who has a mental disability (often used as a general term of abuse)


in retard

British formal behind in terms of development or progress:I was in retard of them in real knowledge










late 15th century: from French retarder, from Latin retardare, from re- ‘back’ + tardus ‘slow’




  • 1 a person whose profession is acting on the stage, in films, or on television
  • a person who behaves in a way that is not genuine:in war one must be a good actor
  • 2 a participant in an action or process:employers are key actors within industrial relations




late Middle English (originally denoting an agent or administrator): from Latin, ‘doer, actor’, from agere ‘do, act’


In the time of Shakespeare female roles were played by boys or men, and women did not appear on stage in England until after the Restoration of 1660. Female performers were then called either actors or actresses — it was only later thatactor became restricted to men — and it seems that we are returning to the original situation. Although there is still an awards category at the Oscars called Best Actress, some people are again using the gender-neutral term actor for both sexes.   See also

The Harmonics Of Poverty and Writing or, I Need an Agent or Publisher

On August 1, 2001 I became a statistic.  I was officially homeless. My daughter was thrown in a truck, I was beaten and left there to figure it out.  I owned nothing except a suitcase fiilled with photographs of  my daughter, as many of her clothes as I could pack, two pairs of underwear and a T shirt for myself.  I felt I could survive with just the clothes on my back and actually, I didn’t really care, I was just too traumatized and absorbed in the search for my child as well as the monumental task of staying alive.  I will admit to being exceptionally grateful to be out of the filthy rat infested shack my daughter and I had been forced to live in for five years of our lives.  I would be sleeping in a house with a roof overhead that wasn’t full of holes and that in itself was a marvel.  I didn’t expect my child and I to get out of there alive and my ability to write about all things related to this period in time is miraculous indeed.

I have to fight each and every day to focus and concentrate because the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that clings to me like a hungry alligator is a constant companion and foe that challenges my every attempt to function and write.  So far, I’ve endured.  At the time of these events in my life, I lived in a state of urgency and the present, with no thought of tomorrow being a viable truth.  When the shelter system spit me out with the rest of the women and children who’d used up their sixty days, I had no idea what to do but my survival instincts kicked into high gear pretty damn quick. Living on the street is not something anyone can write with cogency, unless they’ve spent time in that particular gutter, isolated and desperate.

One reason I wanted to write this post, is that in my travels around the internet, I’ve come across two separate items about homelessness.  Each one was written by people who have absolutely no idea what they are talking about and it is insulting to those who do.   One is about exploiting the poor for money under the guise of helping them overcome their plight and it is a scam and utter bullshit.  The other is written as observational poetry by someone who’s work is mediocre at best and ridiculous at the worst.  This particular poem was bending down the ridiculous end like spaghetti until it snaps.   I had an enormous “How dare you!” moment, I admit it and after reading this crap, I sat and cried.  Yep, I did. I sobbed a tissue soaker,  because here I am, with a million stories to tell, stories about real people with the authenticity that comes from suffering  and guess what?  No one wants them.   I won’t delve into my submission history, but it appears,  if I write fluff for print magazines and take a few cutesy photos,  an editor will lap it up like a cat does cream.  However, if I produce something real and valuable,  with my heart bleeding on every word, they won’t even give me a glance.  I’ve been having some serious doubts recently about whether I should continue with what appears to become a fruitless endeavor that is completely related to the corruption and politics that is inherent in the publishing industry.  I want to be proven wrong about this, to be given the opportunity to give someone a memoir that would make us all a lot of money, but no takers.  I clearly don’t know the right person/people, or possess the degree necessary to make me palatable to those who can give my words to the world.

As it stands, I have two books in various stages of development and a third is completed, although I’m tweaking it and polishing it, (thank you Bryan, your input was very important to me and priceless.) It will be ready to submit this week and I’m facing the prospect of  that inevitable editorial boot in the face, with such despair and trepidation it is crushing my soul.   I’ve survived so much and I made a promise to some very broken people, to write this book and sell it.  I’ve written it, but the selling it isn’t up to me and once again, just like those days spent in hell, living on the streets of Bellingham  Washington, I am at someone else’s mercy.  It isn’t a good place to be because in my experience, there isn’t a surplus of mercy among the rich and powerful.  Wish me luck, I’m going to need it over the next little while and if there happens to be, by some quirk of fate, an editor or agent cruising by this blog, I have this to say to you:  I have a best seller in my hands, it’s entitled, The glass Tulips.  please, email me and request partials, full, a proposal, whatever, just ask for it and it’s yours. Of course, I won’t hold my breath because this glass is not only half empty, it’s been drained.

Okay, off to do the usual grind,  be good to yourselves and have a  Happy and safe July 4th to everyone south of the border.