Me.

This is me! I'm just learning how to work this damn thing.

Figurin'

Google News">

I made a link.

Write your brains out.

Yesterday the National Post managing editor Jonathon Kay came to visit our class. A soft spoken man with glasses that looked like the ones Mr. Farqhuar made us wear in Grade 10 tech, Kay gave us some simple advice to help us find our way through the uncertain terrain before us.

"Write your brains out", he said. Read a lot, read quickly, and write quickly. Point taken. Mr. Kay, I have begun by writing about you and your ugly glasses.

Every time we have a journalist come speak to us a few people end up with a knot in their panties. I guess it's easy to feel overwhelmed by the competitive nature of this field, or appalled by the gruelling hours journalists are expected to work, or, worse, terrified that the newspaper industry is a sinking ship that no one in their right mind would board. But for some reason I'm just going with it. I guess I feel that if this works out, fantastic, but that if it doesn't it'll still be a step in the right direction. Much better than standing still.

Gilbert Blythe!

During a lovely evening out in the O-town with my mother, who had driven eight hours to spend the weekend with me, I visited the Great Canadian Theatre Company for the very first time. What a delightful, quirky and dingy little place. Aside from lack of leg room and the fact that the recycling bin is in the one-stall washroom (and was the only place for me to hang my coat while I took a pee), I rather enjoyed the venue. But the performance - The Oxford Roof Climber's Rebellion by Stephen Massicotte, was something else altogether. Massicotte has the rare gift of being able to create something both heartbreaking and terribly funny at the same time, providing a glimpse into the past, to the time when Brits (and people the world over) were trying to recreate lives that were shattered during WWI.

But I have to say the highlight of the show came in the first five minutes when I sat frozen in my seat, jaw open, wondering if I had somehow slipped into a silly schoolgirl reverie. The stage was empty when a middle aged man in a tuxedo came stumbling out with a terrible cough, trying desperately to hide the pain of his punctured lung, a wound from the war. Another character entered and the two began to converse. I have no idea what they were talking about. All I could think was, "Could it really be? Gilbert?"

Oh but it was. Gilbert Bythe, my grade school crush. Anne's rival and secret love. I couldn't say how many times I watched those as a child. I wanted to have red hair. My mom made me a dress with puffed sleeves. It was a sad little affair.

I opened my playbill in the dark and held it up as close to my eyes as possible, adjusting the angle until a glimmer of stage light illuminated the cast bios. There he was. Jonathan Crombie as Robert Graves. Gilbert Blythe.

I have to say, he stole the show as the tormented war poet Graves. Even if he'd sucked, I probably would never tell. We have a tendency to want to protect people we grew up with.

N