What's that supposed to be?

So I’m walking down Burrard Street in downtown Vancouver. Although I very seldom bare my chest, I am stalking purposefully and topless, with my provocative man-boobs bouncing and winking at the passers by. I’m wearing a pair of black track pants, which neatly bisect the pale chub around my waist, creating a lovely male muffintop. In my right hand I clutch several loonies, looking for my car so as to re-fill the parking meter. My left arm is wrapped in saran wrap to contain the blood and ink. It’s sunny and surreal. I stop to notice the moment and lock it in my memory. Never, would I ever, normally do this. It’s all because, as a silly middle-aged guy, I finally decided to get my tattoo.

Not just any tattoo, mind, you. Not some coy little toe-in-the-pool tat, no siree… This was a headlong leap into the world of ink and blood. I decided to go big or go home, and with over 10 hours in the chair and my upper arm completely covered in lovely design… I’d say this qualifies.

Why did I do it? Oh, probably the same reasons most guys like me do it. I chalk a lot of it up to mid-life crisis and vanity. All the other cool Dads are doing it. Still, there must be some deeper influences at play here for me to be willing to sit still and pay lots of money to have someone jab art into my flesh with those groovy needles. I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately and I think I know who is to blame. It’s Ray Bradbury.

I will be the first to admit that I was an awkward teen. Middle School was not kind, and I have no intention of detailing the anguish of those pubescent years in this particular account. I will say that I found solace in books. I read science fiction and fantasy voraciously in those days. The first Bradbury book I ever saw was The Illustrated Man and it helped to send me on my journey to today very nicely. Bradbury showed us an old guy wandering around with mysterious, twitching tattoos covering his body… tattoos that came to life and told kick-ass stories. This was very attractive to me. When you are 14 and trying to figure out how you’re going to run the gauntlet of that day’s particular string of frustrations and humiliations, imagining a world of dark and fetishistic magic is alluring indeed. After Bradbury I read a bunch of other books and didn’t think much about if for a long while, but the seed had been planted.

Years later I had a roommate named Bryan. He was audacious, confident, and charismatic. Although we were about the same age, (21 and 24, I think) he seemed so much older than me. He’d fearlessly done all sorts of shit in his life that I hadn’t, including getting tattoos. He has a black panther on one arm, and a nifty dragon on the other from when he was visiting China. To my growing young mind it just seemed so cool and unthinkable, yet think I did… for over 20 years.

As time went by I became more interested in counterculture and art, freak shows and devil girls, pagan mythos and space aliens, and a whole bunch of fun and freaky stuff that coalesced. Last year I got the feeling that I better just get on with it. After all, tattoos last a lifetime and at this point I’ll only have to look at it for the remaining, final half.

I had coffee with an old pal named Rick. He’d taken the plunge and had a bunch of ink done. He was jazzed and interested in becoming a tattoo artist himself. We talked about designs and he referred me to Justina at Liquid Amber Tattoo. Even though I was sure I was going to do it, I left the business card on my desk for weeks before I made the call. When I finally did it, I knew I wanted it. I even had the design in mind.

I’ve since discovered something Rick told me to be true. He warned me that folks would ask me to explain my tattoo and that I’d probably not like it. I find “What is it?” (or worse, “What’s that supposed to be?”) very personal questions. That’s a bit ironic considering I’m wearing a colourful prompt on my arm that begs explanation. Call me self-conscious, but it’s difficult for me to talk about my design choices without feeling stupid, pretentious, and a wee bit flaky. Here’s hoping that it all comes off better in prose.

My tattoo is a large upper sleeve on my left arm. The dominant image is the Green Man, looking out from my shoulder. Below him you’ll find a Celtic rooster, with his plumage entwined in the leaves of Green Man’s beard. Curving onto my shoulder from behind Green Man there are two inquisitive crows.

The Green Man is a mish-mash of pagan Father Nature deities. He’s the Man in the Wood who makes love to the earth goddess. He impregnates her with his future self and then dies at harvest time, only to be reborn in the spring and repeat the cycle for eternity. His death/sacrifice helps to ensure the health of the following years’ crops. Green Man is alive in the trees and carries a central life force that can’t be destroyed, and is always renewed. He’s all over northern Europe in art and architecture, peering out, leafy and strange. I believe that the early Christians co-opted him and put his image up in their cathedrals to help convert the pagans of the day. Their tactic may have worked, but Green Man lives on, as is his nature.

I love the look of the guy and I relate to him. To me he’s powerful, whimsical, balanced, and potent, which are qualities I aspire to. Having experienced a near death and re-birth of sorts myself, I believe there are parallels between us. All my life I’ve gotten the sense that when you’re alone in the woods you’re not really alone. Green Man is there, and I like him. He watches, bemused, and gets on with the never-ending cycle of which he’s a part. I’m not religious, or even overly spiritual, but Green Man is my kind of god. When I did the sketches for my tattoo artist, I did my best to make him resemble me. My wife and son both picked up on it immediately.

The Celtic Rooster represents a different me. As a teen I carried the unfortunate nickname “Chickenman”. My sibs and pals, justifiably, noticed I have some passing resemblance to poultry, so I heard it a lot over the years. Not surprisingly, I was never fond of the branding. Looking back I have to admit that they were on to something. Oh well… If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I relate to the Rooster just fine. He’s horny and flighty and bossy. He’s prone to strutting and preening. If you believe that everyone has an animal totem, mine is definitely Rusty the Rooster. I’ve reclaimed him by accepting who I am and why he is me. He’s woven into my tattoo and my life. In this Celtic depiction he is stylish and scattered, silly and sincere. He’s very at home under Green Man.

Crows are neat. I could go on about the symbolism and mythology of crows and all that, but that’s not what these are about. The two on my back live around my house and get rid of pigeons, pick at garbage, caw at dawn and generally make a nuisance of themselves. I love these guys. They are the national bird of East Vancouver and are welcome in my yard. I was looking at them this morning when I started writing this. They are the “here and now” anchor of my tattoo, contrasting the eternity of Green Man and the personal history (nay, baggage?) of the Chicken.

Yesterday, today and forever: a semi-spiritual representation of me and mine. That’s my first tattoo. The next one will be utter nonsense. I can hardly wait. Chances are I’ll be wandering through Downtown semi-clad and sporting saran wrap again someday.

Who the hell thought up "yogalates"?

My friend and fitness trainer is a very sweet man with a perfect physique and an evil glint in his eye. He's ten years older than I, and a perfect specimen. If I didn't like him so much I'd hate his guts. About five years ago I made a commitment to reasonable health and fitness. For the most part I've been pretty good, with better diet, cycling and some weight training. My trainer, who owns the gym, has helped me along the way, showing me how to work out safely, and responsibly, with acceptable results. He also has a mean streak. I can only believe he takes deep personal pleasure in my chubby, inept humiliation.

As I relish the sensation of my body aging and decaying, I notice little warning signs. Lately it's been my lower back. It's not really a problem, just an occasional twinge after I've shoveled a bunch of topsoil or something. But... I think back to the massive moose of a man who used to be our neighbour when I was a kid. This guy has such serious back problems that there are times when he is forced to spend days lying on a flat plank in his living room. No lie. All things being equal, this is an eventuality I choose to avoid for myself. So... I admitted to my small twinges with my friend and trainer at the gym.

"Oh, Tim... what you need is to take the Yogalates class. It starts in five minutes. It'll sort you right out." He watched my face fall as I remembered the time he talked me into attending a Boot Camp session, which was a near vomitous experience for me. I considered resisting, but then I saw the look on his face. It was clear that I'd just be a big fat pussy if I copped out.

Now, as you may guess, Yogalates is a sassy mix of yoga and pilates. I know nothing about such stuff, but in retrospect I think the class might be more appropriately named "Humiliation for Sweaty Old Bastards "or "Crow Eating 101".

To begin with, it's very popular among the female demographic aged 20-30. Doing the math, I realize that means I could easily be the father of a lot of the women in the class. These realizations make me feel a bit bad about my lustful thoughts, but only a bit. As the proud owner of a penis, I was half of what made up the 15% male portion of the class, (meaning there were two of us). The other 85% were lovely, fit, young women of varying degrees of curvaceousness. "Hell," I thought, "How hard could it be?"

It seems Yogalates is all the rage these days.The studio was packed by the time I convinced myself to follow the stream of yoga-panted women into the semi-dark chamber. New-age music chimed softly as I stumbled and tripped amongst the roses, looking for somewhere to learn all about it. My damn trainer pointed out that there was a single spot remaining in the front, right-hand corner of the room. I grabbed one of those paper-thin mats and headed off into the darkness, trying not to tread on anyone's little fingers, nor to ogle too obviously the curves and contours of my youthful classmates. I made eye contact with the only other male in the room. He was short and a bit hairy and had a slightly yogi-esque look to his lean and rippled physique. "So, what exactly is Yogalates?" I asked in a brotherly way. He smiled the honest smile of the converted and said, "Torture."

I found my little spot in the corner and grunted around, laying mat, removing shoes and socks, and realizing that even just sitting on my ass, legs forward and spine straight, felt like a pretty good workout to me. To my front I had a lurid view of my lovely self in the mirror, to my right, another view in another mirror, which helped me remember to cut back on the home-brew. To my left there was a tallish, clean-limbed specimen with brunette pigtails and distractingly wide hips. Behind, where I could not really see, was a willowy blond. My first problem (yet, alas, not my last) was clear even before we got started. In the dark, trapped in a corner, with a complete lack of knowledge, I could see sweet-fuck-all except for the writhing fineness of the woman to my left. "Oh well," I thought, "I guess I'll just have to copy the moves from her. Not such a hardship, actually."

And so it began. I broke a sweat just trying to imagine the mythical abdominal muscles I was supposed to visualize and move to the centre of my pelvis. Apparently my navel was supposed to migrate down, through my back and into the floor. I don't think it got there. As things moved along I found it more and more difficult to keep up. There were crab-walky stances and raised legs and bizarre pelvic-tilt roll-ups. I was sweating freely by the time we were 15 minutes in, doggedly trying to keep up while stealing glances at the young dear next to me. Sadly, she didn't seem to be too familiar with the moves, but her expansive pelvic girdle and generous breasts made it difficult to peer past her, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to anyways.

Then there was the move that actually required *magic*. Somehow we were supposed to lie on our backs, flat as a board with our arms limp at our sides. Using non-existent abdominal strength, and *magic* we were supposed to roll up to a sitting position without using our arms, like some crazy marionette being pulled up by a string. Let me tell you here and now that I am nobody's puppet. It didn't happen, but I made quite a spectacle of myself as I flapped my arms trying to get up.

Half way through the session I was toast, but I couldn't countenance the humiliation of thrashing my way out of my little corner. I was bathed in sweat and dripping on the yoga mat. The mat was too thin for my deformed tailbone, which felt like it was drilling a new route to China every time I was forced to lay on my back and put my legs up in the air. When I performed said maneuver my legs (which I think are very buff and sexy, due to cycling) trembled and jiggled like the limbs of a newborn foal. I had removed my glasses because they kept sliding off my rosy, sweat-drenched face. Thus I was also semi-blind in my dark, sequestered corner and could no longer see to my left effectively for instruction. There were moves that I ignored completely and laid on my back, trying to pretend I was invisible, and not the sad, fat, creepy old guy in the corner. I cursed my trainer three times in my mind and resolved to never return to godforsaken Yogalates.

Then I heard a guttural moaning to my left. Not a sexy sound, oh no. It was plaintive. Behind me the mystery blond began keening quietly to herself. It was the unmistakable sound of someone in pain, who is lost. I snatched my glasses and held them in place. Looking unashamedly around me, I saw that the lithe neighbours were flailing, bailing and failing, thank the stars above. I may have been old enough to have fathered them, but they were suffering, too. My self-loathing began to abate.

The rest of the class was a bit of a blur, but the hardest stuff was over. The final stretches and cool-down moves were something I was actually capable of doing. My new girlfriends floundered around, but we soldiered on together to finish the class. We didn't actually speak to one another, but I felt some telepathic commiseration going on. My trainer made sure to offer me a few quips about my lack of flexibility as I sopped my sweat off the yoga mat with handfuls of paper towels. Ha ha. Very funny.

The next day by lower back was perfect, with nary a twinge to be felt. My bastard trainer buddy was correct, as usual. I had been sorted right out. So had my ego. A little core strength never hurt anyone, as long as you don't kill yourself getting it. I have decided to continue going to Yogalates through the summer to see if I can learn the *magic*.

Oh, this makes me smile....

Really. The Herculoids. Anyone else remember this Alex Toth Adventure weirdness from Hanna Barbera? I was very little and watched it on the old Black and White tv. I'm totally smiling right now.

I really think I need to do this...

That's right. It's a white and red polka dot house. Looks like a yummy and cozy peppermint.I ride past it often and I finally thought to take a picture. It looks way better in person. I love that somebody got up one morning, looked at their house and thought, "Hmmm. Polka dots. That's what this place needs. There aren't enough polka dots in the world, or on this street."

I like to think I have the nards to do this to my place, but I fear I'd chicken out before I bought the paint. This is a thing that makes me smile.

The price of life... and fuel.

I’ve been thinking a bit about people and their cars. I’ve decided that, chances are, if you have and use a car I might hate you. Last weekend when I filled up the gas tank on the way out to the suburbs I was startled to notice that gas was $1.50 per litre. Folks tend to be very self-centred about their car use. Many are unwilling to curtail driving in the face of skyrocketing gas costs, even if it means cutting back on life’s little pleasures like food and shelter. That may be too bad for you, but that’s not really going to be a problem for me. I don't drive much, you see.

Get ready because I’m gonna be all smug here. My wife and I made some choices over ten years ago that many folks are talking about these days. What is trendy and green now was just common sense to us back then. When we were house hunting, we looked around out in Surrey and considered some massive places that we could likely have afforded. They were usually about twice the square footage of similarly-priced homes in East Vancouver (where we were renting at the time). Every time we drove out to the 'burbs to look at places, we were caught in the soul-sapping, psyche-crushing, resource-slurping, time-gobbling vortex known as the "commute up the Fraser Valley". Holy snapping assholes, what a grind! Wifey and I tallied up the financial cost in fuel and vehicle maintenance, along with the lifestyle cost of three hours per day on the road. We decided a bigger house in the 'burbs was way too expensive, even though it was supposedly cheaper. We dismissed buying a mega-home far away from our real lives (ie. employment, friends and social activities) and "settled" for a smaller home, in an inner city neighbourhood, from which commuting was unnecessary. My wife walks to work. I use my bicycle. Our Volvo is used for shopping trips, visits to family (in the 'burbs), and kid and dog wrangling. The poor Volvo can go for days of sexual frustration where the key never slides into the ignition. It can go weeks without the lovely penetration of the gas nozzle into the receptive, eager and thirsty tank.

What's that, you say? "Oh Tim, don't be so self-centred. You have no idea what I'm up against. I can't afford a home in the city". I call bullshit. What you can’t afford is the same home in the city that you can in the suburbs... Or you are unwilling to move your work and social life to the suburbs where you want to have your house. I know it’s a cliché but sometimes you can’t have it both ways.

It's all about choices, and my wife and I made a decision 12 years ago that provided us with adequate living space, a tenant downstairs, a massive mortgage, and a positive, sustainable lifestyle. For many, especially today, the cost of a detached home in Vancouver is way too high to consider. But... there are still condos and townhomes and apartments that, while smaller, can accommodate modern, thoughtful families. Forgive me if I get all twitchy because it's this sprawling, consumer-driven desire for "more" that tosses folks Hell out and beyond, into what used to be agricultural land. (You know… where we used to grow food before we started trucking it in.) That would be okay with me if you were satisfied with the fact that you will be forced to deal with the isolation and traffic that is part of that decision. Your big new house in Surrey/Langley/Abbotsford has inadequate infrastructure and transit to support the burgeoning community. The developers are very happy to make money on new housing but the municipalities don’t seem to clue into the fact that people are going to actually live there. You'll have to get into the car and drive 5 klicks on the 6-lane highway just to go buy groceries "downtown" (which is really a massive, strip-mall built around runway-style road systems).

When you realize that you don't like the long, crowded commute from your sweet acre of home, you lobby the pinheads in Victoria. The right-wing, car oriented Government likes the colour of your vote, so they decide to double the highways and bridges from your ‘hood into mine. Now, because you believe that you couldn’t “afford” to live near your work, I get to enjoy increased highway-style commuter traffic blazing through my little historic Vancouver community. There are merry mountains of taxpayer dollars being spent to widen a road (mostly for the use of single-occupant vehicles) that will only fill up in no time anyway. Because you want a bigger home in the burbs, because you won't "settle" for something smaller, affordable, and kinder to the planet, we all pay for your private chariot ride through my community. The enabling of your car culture hurts the planet, the urban landscape, and your lifestyle, yet for some reason we allow it. Of course, if you moved to the suburbs to live and work there, I have no beef with you. That’s what people should be doing.

So, now you say… “Ow, the price of gas is killing me. I can’t afford to drive!!” My response can only be… What the Hell did you think would happen? In all your life have you ever seen the price of gas go down? Did your long-term plan of suburban life and daily commuting take into account the fact that UP was the only direction your costs could ever go?

The best bit is that now some of you are actually forced to look at transit as an option because otherwise you won’t be able to pay the mortgage on your big home in the country. Surprise! Now you’re finding out that transit sucks because the “Powers That Be” have only ever funded it to be acceptable to the bottom of the barrel. Up until now only the poor, the elderly, the immigrants, and the students were expected to take transit. You know... the folks with no money or political clout. The right kind of voters were always expected to supply their own ride. Transit in the GVRD is designed to keep people moving only to the point of avoiding unrest and anarchy… no more. I am very grateful for how badly the bus sucks in Vancouver because it turned me into the avid cyclist that I am today. I have good cardio and strong legs because you can’t pay me enough to take the bus.

Wait, wait... before you go getting all zappy with me, I will admit that I am in no way beyond reproach when it comes to my cars. Chances are you’ll find fault with me, too. Oh yeah… I need the Volvo station wagon and I see no reason to stop using it even though the price for fuel is, well... pretty freaking noticeable. Sometimes I feel guilty for the quick jaunts I make in the car, knowing I should just walk or bike. It’s that decadent, car-oriented lifestyle and I’m certainly a part of it. I even own a gas guzzling classic car that is currently parked because I can’t afford to put it on the road. See… choices.

People say that only the wealthy can afford to live in Vancouver these days. I disagree. I see young families in smaller apartments with no cars here. Comparatively, some of the lifestyles I see in the outlying areas look very opulent and excessive to me. There’s a certain kind of greed that fuels people to make strange choices so that they can have more house, more stuff, and more stress while they live in the ‘burbs and make the trek every freaking single day. I’ve had friends who did it for years. When one of them got off the treadmill he was absolutely amazed at the positive change in his life. I encourage you to do the same. It’ll leave more money in your bank account and more time to spend with friends and family. It’ll also be better for the planet.

Oh, and for any of you who think I'm all "Mr. Green", I will confess, for your pleasure, that I do not even compost.... yet.

Maybe I should be embarrased, but...

Last night I watched my brand new copy of Faster Pussycat Kill Kill. I had ordered it special and I actually never buy DVDs to keep. "Why this one?" you may ask...

To begin with, it's hard to actually view this movie. The only time I've seen it before was when I went to a midnight showing years ago with some friends and my wife. We were all astonished at how stupidly, delightfully entertaining this shlocky boobfest was. I have noticed lately that I've always been drawn to this lowbrow, borderline fetish stuff. It's just that nowadays I'm more "out of the closet" about it, so to speak. Bring it on, I say!

These three angry Hellcats, heaving and roiling out of their clothes, quipping their groovy lingo, karate chopping the boys, racing their cars in the desert, running over old guys in wheelchairs, oooooh.... They are just so wonderful. This movie is unapologetically sexy, stupid, funny and violent. I'm not sure if politically incorrect is the proper term for this stuff, but if it is I think we should all learn to relax a little.

Also, just as a movie I think it holds together nicely. Sure it's an exploitation film, but the story is great, it's nicely filmed, and you couldn't ask for stranger and more confident portrayals as far as the actors are concerned. Oh... and Tura Satana's wacky Devil Woman eye makeup kept me awake last night.

Yet... I can't remember the last time I saw the any of movies that win for Best Picture at the Academy Awards. Does that make me shallow, stupid, or comlicated? Oh, probably, but I don't care. I do know that I love this kind of stuff .

If you enjoy it too, you are my kinda people. Maybe you've even been to the Jim Rose Circus and read the Fortean Times, too. Wanna have a Movie Party?